


Ichabbie Tumblr Fics

by sneetchstar



Category: Sleepy Hollow (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-06
Updated: 2018-03-31
Packaged: 2018-09-22 08:19:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 39
Words: 65,612
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9595997
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sneetchstar/pseuds/sneetchstar
Summary: A collection of Ichabbie one-shots, mostly from Tumblr prompts.  Ratings vary by chapter.





	1. Duende

**Author's Note:**

> Duende - Unusual power to attract or charm.

“You just can't see what you do to people.”

Ichabod Crane didn't hear those words when Agent Reynolds spoke them. If he had, he would have wholeheartedly agreed.

For Abbie Mills had charmed him from their first meeting, from her first words to him. They were mildly threatening, but her voice was so soothingly melodious and she held herself with such grace and authority that he was immediately enthralled.

She _doesn't_ know what she does to people. How could she? How could she know her power to charm everyone in her orbit, to be able to command his heart with a single word?

Not even a word. A gesture. A look. How many times has she calmed him, stopped one of his rants with a softly uttered, “You done?” or “Okay.” or merely a raised eyebrow? And how many times has she allowed him to rave on, knowing how he needs to let off steam from time to time or he'll pop?

No, his Lieutenant is blissfully unaware of her power over people. Over _him._ And that's what it is: Power. She has completely enchanted him, and he will happily follow her to the ends of the earth and beyond as many times as is necessary.

Abbie Mills is not a witch like Katrina, but she possesses a magic all her own. And Ichabod Crane is only too happy to be under her spell.


	2. Mamihlapinatapei

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mamihlapinatapei - The look between two people in which each loves the other but is too afraid to make the first move.

Why do they fight it so? The two napalutu are destined to be together. It is foretold. Have they not read the translation of the tablets? It is quite plainly spelled out.

I watch them; I see the love they share. The love to which they are seemingly blind. The love that gave me to courage to leave my delusional husband.

But this other man… this Interloper. He thought he was worthy to bask in her luminescence. But even he, false fool that he is, could not deny the power of their bond. I can see the jealousy and deceit within him and know that it will be his downfall.

She cares for him, but his failure will not break her. I see how she gazes at her True Mate. I see it when no one else does. She can hide from everyone else, but not me.

And she cannot hide from him.

He knows. He sees it. He wears his love for her like that woolen garment of which he is so fond. It is always on his shoulders, his love. He is as transparent as a stream; I can see his longing for her as clearly as smooth stones beneath the flowing water.

He knows, yet he will not act.

The sister sees it, as does her consort, the one with the soul of a wendigo. And the Foundling already assumes they are mated. But they will not interfere, for they fear her. And rightly so, for she is a fierce one, this little napalutu. If pushed, she will push back with more force.

Their pairing will make them powerful. I know this. My former husband should know this, but he has chosen to forget. He has blinded himself to anything but his own power and forgotten the power of love.

And their love will be more powerful than he. It will help them defeat him.

Perhaps I should intercede. Play the innocent. Make a well-placed inquiry.

My fate is sealed whether they succeed or fail… so what is the harm? I can admit that their tenacity has made me grow somewhat fond of them. They have been formidable foes. Perhaps the most worthy opponents I have ever faced.

Ah. The Interloper returns with beverages. A small task for a small man. Worthy of his station. His hand trembles when he places a beverage before me. He fears me.

Good.

I smile sweetly at him and nod once, looking at this drink before casting my eyes on the napalutu, huddled together over a tome. They are so close. He hovers over her. Protects her from any that may come near. He does not even realize he does this.

She looks up at him, listening to his explanation. He is a verbose one, this man. Always uses six words when three will do. Yet she listens patiently with a slight, indulgent smile on her pretty face.

He meets her gaze and his words stutter for a moment, caught in the spell of her eyes.

Such love; it circles them like a soft nimbus.

Can no one else see this glow surrounding them?

There is a rare moment of silence.

“Have you had a moment to translate the words from the tablets?” I ask, pointing my gaze at the bound sheaf of papers bearing the writing of The Hidden One.

She looks him, and he shakes his head. “Is there something we can use in there?”

So direct. Never minces words, this one. I have tremendous respect for her. “I believe it will be quite illuminating for you both,” I answer. “Power can be found in many unexpected places.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was inspired by http://abbiemillsamericandream.tumblr.com/post/141696435986/a-sneak-peek


	3. The Greatest of These is Love

“It is time.” Pandora's words were quiet and brief.

Abbie looks up at Crane, staring up at him through wide eyes.

They are standing at the shores of the lake from which The Hidden One emerged. The lake Abbie came out of when she returned from the Catacombs.

Pandora's instructions were succinct but explicit, and now Abbie and Crane stand facing one another, dressed in nothing but robes, ready to save the world in a way neither of them would have expected.

Crane looks down at Abbie, just as overwhelmed. Hesitantly, he reaches for her hands. He releases a breath he didn't know he was holding when she willingly slips her tiny hands into his.

“You should have already joined before now,” Pandora says, her voice tinged with mild reproach as she shakes her head, still unable to process how these two Witnesses have been able to _resist_ for this long. “Though… perhaps it will be more powerful this way.”

“You gonna stand there and watch us the whole time?” Abbie shortly asks, understandably tense.

“I am merely here to tell you when to begin,” Pandora replies. “I will not remain.”

A red glow begins on the western horizon, like the sun rising. Crane looks at it, then turns to Abbie, rubbing his thumbs along the backs of her hands. “Lieutenant. Dear Lieutenant,” he softly says, “whatever happens, whether this is successful or simply a ploy… I need you to know: I love you.”

“I love you, too.” Her reply comes so quickly and easily he fears she has misunderstood him, so he steps closer, cupping her face in his large hands.

“No…” he intones, almost in a whisper. “I am irrevocably, unconditionally, _in love_ with you, Abbie.”

She reaches up and mirrors his gesture, her small, strong fingers caressing his cheeks through his beard and answers. “ _I know._ ” Her words are emphatic, telling him that she in no way misunderstood the intent behind his words.

A sound to the side causes them to turn their heads and look at the lake. The water has begun to boil.

“It is time,” Pandora repeats, her voice already sounding distant.

Without hesitation, Ichabod crashes his lips against Abbie's, his hands moving around to hold her. Her fingertips burrow into his beard, a needy caress, and he groans in response.

“Crane,” she gasps, tearing her lips away for a second. A single kiss has never felt like this before. “Oh, _shit._ ” She winds her hands around his neck, holding on as he moves her backwards, bracing her against a large oak on the lakeshore.

His hands scrabble, first pulling at his belt, then hers, untying them so their robes fall open. He lifts her, his hands under her robe now, and she wraps her legs around his waist, holding on.

“Abbie,” he murmurs, kissing her lips with ease now that she is elevated, then moving to her neck. She tastes like all things new: Sunrises and blooming flowers and springtime, and it is the most intoxicating thing he has ever experienced. His legs tremble. His cock, which has been fully erect since his lips touched hers, twitches in anticipation of things to come. His lips burn like a fire he never wishes to extinguish.

“Ichabod,” she replies, his name like honey in her mouth. He touch feels like the soft brush of a summer breeze and the gentle lap of ocean waves and the music of laughter, and she knows she will always need it. Her skin sings. Her womanhood throbs, waiting for him. She can feel every part of herself; even the ends of her hair feels electrified.

“Now…” Pandora's voice is like a whisper on the wind. She is gone; they know this, just as they know they will never see her again.

Crane shifts them, and his manhood finds its home with incredible ease, slipping inside of Abbie like it truly belongs there.

They both cry out, Abbie's head falling back against the rough bark of the tree. Ichabod attaches his lips to her collarbone in a sucking kiss that will leave a permanent mark.

Her fingers wind into his hair, gripping the silken waves, desperately holding on as he thrusts into her.

Neither of them notice anything around them. The red, roiling sky above them, the steam rising from the lake, the screaming of the birds and animals in the forest. None of it registers, as they are only aware of one another, only aware of the sensations they are causing within themselves.

He drops his head onto her shoulder, grunting with effort, and Abbie leans her head down, attaching her lips to the place where his neck meets his shoulder, marking him the way he has already marked her.

“I love you,” he whispers, lifting his head again to kiss her lips. “I love you, Grace Abigail Mills. My own. My heart. Mine.” He moves harder; faster.

“I love you, Ichabod Nathaniel Crane,” she answers, her words coming out in a series of short, breathy gasps. “My love. My soul. My _man._ ”

Crane barks a surprised laugh at this last, amazed at her ability to think coherently enough to recall something she said months ago to him, just before they entered another battle. One that did not end so well.

“You are… incredible,” he manages.

“You make me incredible,” she replies.

Then all thought leaves them.

The sky cracks overhead.

Ichabod growls, sounding more beast than man.

Abbie screams, her voice splitting the air.

Then everything goes black.

xXx

The gentle chirping of birds drifts into Crane's consciousness, and he slowly blinks awake, his eyes squinting in the bright sunshine.

It is the next morning. They are on the ground at the base of the tree. He and Abbie are still wrapped around one another, but there is a blanket covering them. He softly groans, and realizes that somehow, he is still inside of her.

 _How is that even possible?_ It is the first coherent thought he has, and it is immediately followed by the impulse to just stay there. His hips flex involuntarily, and Abbie stirs.

“Mmm…” Her moan sounds delicious to his ears, but the suspicious presence of the blanket makes him think they may not be alone.

“Abbie,” he says, his voice incredibly tender and soft. “Abbie, my darling.”

“Crane,” she answers, eyes flying open as she remembers. She squirms a little in his embrace and feels him still seated within her. “Oh.” The exclamation comes out as a breathy gasp.

“I believe it worked,” he says, still conflicted about moving. He knows if he doesn't withdraw soon, he will become fully erect once again and then there will be no turning back. “And I think I should…”

“Ohhh…” she moans as he slides out of her. _I feel empty now._

He kisses her. “Perhaps we can rectify that feeling in a more appropriate location,” he replies.

She blinks at him. “I didn't say that out loud.”

_You didn't?_

“Well, that's new,” she says, half laughing. “Where did this blanket come from?”

He looks up and sees Joe's ambulance parked a distance away. “Miss Jenny and Master Corbin, I would surmise,” he answers.

She pushes him and they sit up. “We did it?” she asks, then immediately changes her question to, “The world didn't end?”

He laughs, actually understanding why she quickly changed her statement.

“It appears so,” he answers. They hear the door of the ambulance open, and Crane hastily makes sure Abbie is properly covered by her robe before securing his own.

“Abbie!” Jenny's voice calls as she and Joe come running.

“Yeah,” Abbie hoarsely calls back.

Crane rises, then helps Abbie to her feet. She wobbles slightly.

“Lieutenant? Are you well?” he asks, supporting her by her elbows.

“Yeah,” she answers. Then, she closes her eyes. “Oh, man… Pretty sure you put a baby in me, Crane.”

Now Crane wobbles, and Abbie laughs.

“Come on, you two,” Jenny says. “Let's get you home.”


	4. Leap

Danny's lips leave Abbie's to trail down her neck, looking for that one spot he occasionally finds, a square centimeter of skin that makes her gasp and arch underneath him.

After the (admittedly ill-advised) kiss in his office, he asked her to dinner. After, they wound up here, in his condo, on his couch, Abbie's shirt already half unbuttoned.

Abbie's eyes open for a moment, looking down at Danny's head, at the familiar pattern of his perfectly-groomed hair. His hands and lips are familiar as they reacquaint themselves with her body.

Then he finds _that_ spot, and her eyes close. She sighs, and feels him smile against her skin, pleased with his success. He spends a few seconds there, then moves on, nudging the collar of her shirt out of the way with his nose.

“Mmm…” Abbie hums, head back, eyes still closed. Her hands clutch his shirt at his shoulders, then slide down his back.

Danny moves his hand up to cup her breast through her bra, pushing up slightly as he presses kisses to the soft flesh rising above the satin edge of the garment.

“Oh, Crane…” she sighs. It's barely a whisper.

But he heard it. In Daniel Reynolds' mind, she may as well have been shouting. He lifts his head. “What did you say?”

Her eyes widen, and she rapidly blinks a few times, clearly not completely realizing what just escaped her mouth. “Did I say… 'Crane'?”

Danny moves away, sitting on the other end of the couch. “Yes. You did.”

“Shit,” she softy curses, buttoning up her shirt. “Danny, I…”

“Save it,” he quietly says, holding his hand up. “I don't need any explanations.”

“He and I aren't—”

“I don't _want_ any explanations, Mills,” he says with more emphasis. “I believe you when you say you aren't with him romantically. I'm just not sure you believe yourself.”

“We've never… I mean, he hasn't ever said…” her voice trails off as she realizes that her partner, fellow Witness, and best friend, has indeed said. Not directly, not overtly, but he _has._

“You sure about that?” Danny asks, raising an eyebrow. “Because I've seen the two of you together, and I don't know _what_ you two are to each other, but it is definitely more than _just friends._ ” Abbie opens her mouth to say something and he holds up his hand. “And don't start about how he's your monster hunting partner and that's why you're so close. That may be the initial reason, but it's not the only one.”

She says nothing, because there's nothing she _can_ say.

“I think you should go,” Danny says after a moment. He doesn't sound angry. Merely disappointed. Like he isn't entirely surprised.

“I think I should,” Abbie agrees. She stands and grabs her coat. “I'm sorry, Danny. I… I guess I was wrong about being ready for this kind of relationship.”

He follows her to the door, opening it for her. “You were only wrong about who you wanted it with, Abs.”

She stares at him for a moment, then turns and leaves. She doesn't bother asking about how this will affect their working relationship. She may be dead in a few days anyway, so it doesn't really matter.

-Two Days Later-

Abbie wakes up, slowly blinking awake. She sits bolt upright and looks around, on high alert, not sure if this is actually her room or if it's just another illusion, a cruel trick to chip away at her sanity.

The last thing she remembers is running towards the well, her hand held tightly in Crane's as he pulled her along behind him as they fled the Catacombs, trying to escape before the temple exploded.

No. The last thing she remembers is bursting forth out of that _freezing_ lake, again, sputtering for air, again, then collapsing on the shore, Crane beside her, her hand still limply resting in his.

_Crane._

“Crane!” she yells, suddenly frantic. Still not entirely convinced she's really here, she needs to know. Needs to see him, for him to _tell her_ they are home and everything is all right. “ _Crane!!_ ”

He bursts into her room without knocking, still tying his bathrobe closed over that ridiculous nightgown he insists on wearing. “Lieutenant?” he gasps, eyes wide, hair a complete mess.

They stare at one another, and time seems to stop. She has that haunted, frightened expression he recognizes and knows he is the only one who can make it go away. Forgoing propriety, he plops down beside her on the bed and takes her hand between both of his.

“You are home and you are safe, Abbie,” he says, his voice soothing and even. “You've been asleep for over 12 hours.”

“We're really home?” she asks, squeezing his hand.

“Yes. We succeeded in stopping The Hidden One. This is real. Your house, your room, your bed. Me,” he squeezes her hand back. “I am real.” He moves one hand and hesitantly cups her cheek, his thumb skimming her cheekbone.

Her lips part and she leans into his touch, craving more of it. “Crane,” she says, but she doesn't know what she wants to tell him.

“Yes, Lieutenant?” He goes to move his hand from her face and hers flies up, covering it, pressing it to her cheek again.

“I don't know,” she whispers. “Just… don't go.”

“It is my intent to remain at your side for as long as you will have me,” he softly says.

She looks up at him, truly hearing the meaning behind his words for the first time. She always brushed off his flowery manner of speaking as a symptom of his being from a different era, but now she realizes that every vow of fidelity, every pretty speech about their bond, every look he gives her is not because he is an 18th century man in a 21st century world. It is because he loves her so much that he can't _not_ tell her every way he can apart from directly.

“I know,” she answers, still whispering. Then, she bites her lower lip, leans forward the short distance, and kisses him.

It is a very brief, very soft kiss, but its intent is clear.

“Abbie?” he asks, wondering if she can hear the beating of his heart.

She suddenly loses her nerve. He is so still. Normally she can read his every expression, but his face is uncharacteristically blank. “Please don't tell me I misread,” she whispers, her eyes closing as embarrassment washes over her.

Now his eyes widen. “No!” he answers, rubbing his thumb across the back of her hand, causing her eyes to open once again. “Not at all… I was merely taken by surprise. I did not realize _you_ felt the same,” he admits. “Well, there were times when I had an inkling, but… the recent developments with Agent Reynolds...”

“There are no recent developments with Agent Reynolds, Crane,” she says. “At least, what there were of developments ended the night before we went to the Catacombs.”

“Oh. I… I am sorry,” he replies.

“Are you?” she asks.

“No.”

She looks at him. “You didn’t notice things were decidedly chilly between me and Danny while we were planning?”

“In all honesty, I chose not to observe your interactions with Agent Reynolds,” he admits. “’Twas too painful.”

Abbie sighs and scoots back, setting her pillows up against her headboard so she can lean against them. “I thought being with him was what I wanted,” she starts. “After my… extended stay in the Catacombs, I knew… I learned what _true_ loneliness is. I always said that romance was an unnecessary complication, but I missed it, Crane. And, even though Danny had been acting like a jerk lately… well, he was there. Familiar. Accessible.”

“Lieutenant, I—”

She holds up her index finger at him, mimicking what she and Jenny have taken to calling “The Mansplaining Finger”. It works, and he closes his mouth.

“Just listen, okay?” she asks, and he nods. He offers his hand again, and she takes it, simply holding it in hers.

“I _thought_ Danny was the same Danny I left in Quantico. And I thought I could be the same person I was back then, too, if I was with him.” She shakes her head. “Hell, I’m not even the same person I was before the Catacombs,” she says. She looks over at Crane. He is intently watching her, giving her his full attention, listening like only he can. It bolsters her, knowing that this man sees her as his whole world. And it frightens her. “It was like putting on a favorite old shirt,” she says. She smiles a little. “Surely you can understand that.”

He chuckles and looks down, nodding. “Comfortable and familiar, as you said. Of course I understand.”

“But now the shirt has shrunk. Maybe has a hole or a big old grease stain that won’t wash out,” she adds, continuing the metaphor. “It just doesn’t fit and doesn’t… doesn’t _work_ anymore, no matter what you do.” She toys with his fingers, marveling at the sheer size of his hand compared to hers as she weighs her next words. “Being with you… it scares me, Crane.”

“Why is that, Abbie?” he softly asks, scooting a little closer.

She takes a deep breath. “Danny was comfortable. An island of relative normality in this sea of weird in which we live. But you… I mean, you have to admit, our relationship is pretty intense, regardless of what we are to each other,” she says. He nods, but says nothing, wishing for her to continue. “You know how important you are to me. I don’t say it much, but you know.”

“I do,” he softly answers, taking no offense at her implication that he is not normal.

“Purgatory, the Catacombs… you were my lifeline in both places, Ichabod, and that’s very scary for me. You were the only thing keeping me sane. Keeping me _alive_. To place that much… trust in you, to fully open myself up to you, when I’ve never fully opened myself up to _anyone_ , not even Jenny, is… terrifying.” Her grip tightens on his hand. “You know me better than anyone ever has or ever will. I love you. But I’m afraid of taking a leap off of that cliff with you. Afraid of losing myself in you.”

He gasps at her admission, then moves closer and carefully wraps her in his embrace. He drops a kiss on the top of her head. “My dear, dear, Abbie,” he says, his voice gentle, “It is I who is afraid of losing myself in you. You are… my entire _world_ , don’t you see? Miss Jenny and I haven’t told you this, but I was beyond bereft when you were gone. Rarely eating or sleeping and nearly costing me my bid for citizenship. Abbie, I love you so much it has been almost painful to remain in your presence, yet I am… addicted to your very soul and I cannot part from you. I have simply been so paralyzed with fear of your not reciprocating my feelings that I could do nothing to act on them.”

“Oh, Crane,” she says, pressing her face into his chest as she blinks back tears, “I don’t want ‘normal’. I want you. Us. What we have. _Our_ normal, crazy though it is.”

“That is all I have ever wanted for so long,” he replies, his ramrod straight posture slumping against her with relief.

“How long?”

“Longer than I am currently able to admit, even to myself,” he answers.

She winds her arms around him, half sitting, half lying in an awkward hug on her bed. “Is that why you left last year?” she asks.

“It is a significant part of it, yes,” he admits. “I was on the brink of making what could have been construed as a very large mistake so soon after the death of my wife. My wife, who I killed to save you.”

“You killed her to save _everyone_ ,” Abbie corrects, looking up at him.

“Mainly you,” Crane replies. He heavily exhales, and adds, “When I found myself standing outside of your house later that same night, ready to go inside and – forgive my coarseness – dive into you until we both forgot the world existed, I knew I had to leave.”

She blinks, surprised, her lips parting slightly as she gasps. _I had no idea his feelings for me went back that far._

His gaze flickers to her lips, then back to her eyes. “Abbie,” he says, “may I kiss you?”

She nods and says, “You never need to ask.”


	5. Imagine

They stand, staring down at the open box, mesmerized by the eerie light issuing forth.

Preparing to sacrifice themselves. To offer their souls up to Pandora’s box to save the rest of humanity.

Abbie had stepped up first, but at Crane’s shout of, “Abbie, no!” she hesitated this time, remembering what her sacrifice did to him last time. She stopped.

“I do what you do, remember?” Crane said, rising to his feet and jogging to her side.

She held her hand out to him, and he gratefully clasped it.

“Okay,” Abbie breathes, trying to psych herself up again. Waiting for him forced her to stop and think about her actions, and now she finds she’s losing her nerve.

She doesn’t know where Jenny, Danny, Ezra, and Sophie are. Probably for the best, she reasons.

“You waste time,” Pandora softly intones, but her voice isn’t as steady and calm as it normally is.

Crane squeezes Abbie’s hand. “Lieutenant,” he says.

“Yeah,” she answers, looking up at him.

Without a word, he swoops down and kisses her with a passion Abbie always suspected was simmering beneath his polished and proper exterior.

He releases her hand to pull her against him, deepening the kiss, determined to make the most of the last moments of his life.

Her hands move to his shoulders, hanging on as she lifts up on tiptoe, trying to bring herself higher, closer.

They only break apart when they hear Pandora’s screams.

“NO!”

Gasping, they watch, wide-eyed, as Pandora is sucked into the box.

The lid slams shut and all is quiet.

“What was that?” Abbie asks, her lips - her whole body - still tingling from that kiss.

“I believe the box claimed Pandora’s soul instead of ours,” Crane answers. He unconsciously sucks his lips into his mouth, savoring the lingering taste of her because he knows he may never experience such ambrosia again.

“No, not that. This.” She gestures between them.

“I could not go to my death without knowing the taste of your lips, Abbie,” he quietly says. “Forgive me.”

“Shut up,” she says, exhaling a slightly exasperated laugh as she grabs his lapels and pulls him back down for another kiss.

Crane makes a surprised noise before melting into her again.

“We cannot deny this any longer,” he murmurs against her lips.

She pulls away just enough to say, “Well, being able to save the world with a kiss is a pretty big deal.”

“Mmm, imagine what we could do together if we truly put our minds to it,” he says, his voice dripping with implication.

“It’s not your mind I’m interested in right now,” she replies, pulling his face back down to hers.


	6. Things You Said with No Space Between Us

“Oof!” Abbie's body comes flying, barreling into Crane as she runs out of the building. Instinctively, he catches her, and her feet wind up leaving the ground.

“Go!” she yells, hanging on, clamping her legs around his waist. “Run!” she urges.

“Erm…” Crane hesitates for a fraction of a second before tightening his grip on her and doing as she has instructed. He knows if she says “Run”, she _means_ it.

The jostling of her body against his is a little… exhilarating, and Abbie presses her face into his shoulder.

The building explodes, and Crane ducks behind a large tree. “Miss Mills?” he asks after a moment.

She lifts her head, hoping how turned on she is doesn't show on her face. “I'm good,” she says, holding his gaze a fraction too long. “Oh.” She loosens her grasp on him, but instead of dropping gracefully to the ground, she somehow slides down his body until her feet land on top of his. “Sorry,” she whispers.

When she looks at his face, it is beet red and his pupils are blown wide.

\---

The beast throws Crane like a rag doll, and he flies through the air, into a pile of cardboard boxes, and to the floor behind them.

Right on top of Abbie.

A second later, there is the distinct _twang_ and _swoosh_ as Jenny's crossbow bolt sends the silver-tipped arrow into the beast.

“Got it!” Jenny triumphantly yells. “Abbie? Crane?”

Abbie gasps, looking like a fish out of water. Crane's weight knocked the wind out of her, and his body is still. Then, air suddenly fills her lungs and she shouts, “Go find Sophie!” She does _not_ need her sister finding her with Crane sprawled over her like they just finished doing the do and he passed out on her in post-coital bliss.

_Not that there would be anything wrong with… focus, Mills._

Jenny's retreating footsteps are accompanied by the sounds of Abbie shifting under Crane's weight, trying to check his vitals. She finds the pulse in his neck. It is strong and steady. _Thank God._ Her hand rests on his neck for a second. “Crane,” she says. “Come on, baby, wake up,” she unthinkingly urges, patting his cheek. She's always struck by how soft his beard is.

He shifts and groans, stirring awake, pressing his face into her breasts in the process. “Mmm,” he hums, sounding very much like he is enjoying one of the gourmet pastries of which he is so fond.

“You okay?” she asks, trying to ignore how that soft beard feels against her skin.

When he opens his eyes and finds himself buried face-first in her cleavage, he is momentarily stunned. “Oh… I… um… never better,” he dumbly answers.

“I can see that,” she replies, laughing, and that jolts him into action, practically launching himself off of her.

\---

“Abbie.” His voice is a low rumble as he stares down at her. Smolders.

“Crane, I…” she answers, her voice trembling.

“Why do you fight so?” he asks, running a single finger down her cheek to her chin, where he switches to his thumb, tracing her lower lip with it.

Her eyes close. “You know why,” she whispers.

He grabs her before she can flee, his ability to read her second to none and his soldier's reflexes allowing him to act. He hauls her against him, catching her in a firm but tender embrace. “And you know why you need not fear this,” he replies, speaking into her hair.

Slowly, her hands come up around his waist, fisting the back of his shirt. This small reciprocation is all he needs, and she suddenly finds herself lifted and set on the kitchen counter. He is still just as close, standing between her thighs, holding her against him.

His hands frame her face, and she bravely holds his gaze.

She swallows once, and he watches her throat move.

He lowers his head and kisses the place he just watched flutter, and she gasps.

She pulls his head up and seals her lips to his. “I really hate how well you know me,” she manages between kisses, clinging to him with everything she has. Needing him as close as possible.

“No, you don't,” he retorts, giving her what she wants. He pulls her against him, lifting her off the counter and walking towards the stairs.


	7. Until That Time – Part 1

She stands and takes a few steps away from him. He begins to panic, even this absence too sharp, too painful.

Then she turns, closed fist extended.

He rises, but instead of bumping his fist against hers, he gently takes it between his two hands, marveling how there is not enough of her tiny fist to fill his large mitts. He lifts it to his lips, and bestows a kiss on her knuckles for far longer than would ever be considered proper.

“My, my...” she says, false bravado firmly intact. “Be still, my beating heart.”

He moves her hand, holding it to his cheek and closing his eyes as though her touch both soothes and burns him.

But when she gently tries to pull away, he tugs until she is in his arms.

“Crane,” she says, trying to make it sound like a warning, but her voice wavers.

“They were right, you know. Betsy. Pandora,” he murmurs, not sure if Abbie would know about Pandora’s words or not, but he doesn’t much care at the moment.

“I know,” she whispers, staring up at him with her beautiful dark eyes. “I’ve known since I came back.”

“Abbie,” he says, his voice thick, “before I go... please...” He lets the question float, hanging in the mere inches of space that separate them.

She smiles, reaches up, and cups his cheeks, her small, strong hands framing his face, her fingers in his beard for the last time.

It is all the answer he needs, and he drops his head to hers, kissing her with heartbreaking softness and breathtaking languor.

When he reluctantly lifts his head, there are tears in both their eyes.

“My heart will forever belong to you, my lieutenant. My Abbie,” he murmurs, kissing her forehead.

“You’ll find me again. My soul is out there somewhere,” she whispers, lowering her hands. She knows she has to go. She _wants_ to go. To rest. She wants to, yet she doesn’t want to.

“She won’t be you,” he insists in a low voice, squeezing his eyes closed, unwilling to face reality. “She may have your essence, but she won’t be _this_ you. Never you.”

Her lips brushing against his causes his eyes to open again. “We will be together again one day, Ichabod. As us. Just... not right now, okay? It’s not your time yet.”

He clasps their joined hands against his chest and nods, strengthened by her words, by her promise that he will be able to join her, Grace Abigail Mills, wherever she is going, some day. That promise is enough to keep him surviving until that time comes.

“Until that time, my lieutenant, my treasure,” he softly intones, reluctantly releasing her to step back and grant her one final bow, one final gesture to show her she is, and always has been, ruler of his heart.

“I’ll be waiting for you, Captain,” she replies.

When he stands again, she is gone. He closes his eyes, and whispers, “I love you, Grace Abigail Mills.” He was never brave enough to say the words aloud, even to himself, but they come spilling out of him now.

An unlikely breeze blows, and he closes his eyes, a tear escaping as the soft, jasmine-scented air caresses his face.


	8. Until That Time – Part 2

Ichabod Crane died a year later, in the next Tribulation.

He declared it was his turn and freely, almost gleefully sacrificed himself to save humanity.

The next thing he knows, his eyes open and he begins looking around, blinking in the bright sunlight, quickly realizing he is on the front porch of the house he once shared with his beloved Grace Abigail Mills.

“Hey.”

Her voice is like music, the one word from her lips sounding more melodious and glorious than the entire works of Ella Fitzgerald and Billie Holiday combined.

“Lieutenant,” he breathes, suddenly seeing her seated across from him. He rushes towards her and she meets him halfway, practically leaping into his arms.

“You did that on purpose,” she gently chides, squeezing him with all her might.

“I admit nothing,” he returns, knowing she is referring to his sacrifice. “Nothing apart from the fact that I was correct: there was nothing for me in the world without you in it.”

She pulls away just enough to look up at him. “And you do love being right, don't you?” It's a question, but it doesn't really come out as one.

“It is my… third greatest pleasure,” he answers, gazing down at her beautiful face.

Her eyebrows rise. “What is your first?” she warily asks.

He reaches up and strokes her cheek. “Seeing your smile,” he answers. “It has always been so.”

She automatically smiles, remembering all the times he would say or do something ridiculous and then glance sidelong at her, peering over his collar, to see if he has brought a smile to her lips. “And your second?”

He smiles in return, then drops his head and kisses her, unable to wait a second longer. “Oh my…” he groans, pulling his lips away. “I regret every day I did not tell you of my true feelings for you. I missed out on getting to taste your lips more than just the one time.” He lowers his head again, determined to make up for lost time.

“Let's see if we can bump 'being right' into _fourth_ place,” Abbie whispers, pecking his lips once more before taking his hand and pulling him inside.

“Wha… you mean… we can… in this realm?” Crane stammers, blindly following her inside and up the stairs.

She merely grins over her shoulder.

xXx

“Definitely fourth place,” Crane sighs, tucking Abbie against his side. “And we truly get to spend eternity like this? Together?”

“Mmm-hmm,” she hums, nodding against his shoulder. She lifts her head. “I love you, too, Crane,” she adds. “I heard you say it.”

“You did?”

“I meant it with everything I am, and it is still very much the truth,” he replies, knowing that the jasmine breeze he felt that day was indeed her. “And I am sorry my visits to your grave were not more frequent or regular.”

“You had a job to do,” she simply says. “You know no one understands that better than me.”

“Better than _I,_ ” he automatically corrects, earning him a slap on the chest. He catches her hand and kisses her fingers. “Tell me… how does this place compare to the catacombs?”

“No comparison,” she answers. “Time still doesn't really pass, but there is day and night. The sun moves. It's whatever we want it to be. If you're in the mood for a nice thunderstorm, you can have one. If you want snow, it will snow.”

“Fascinating.”

“We don't need to eat, but we can. I know how you love to cook,” she says. “No insomnia, no pain, no injury. No mosquitoes.”

He chuckles. “Truly paradise,” he says.

“Well, it may or may not be heaven, but it is at least connected to it. Heaven's annex? Super-deluxe retirement resort for Witnesses?” she says, smiling. “I got to see my mom. Got to talk to her.”

“Abbie, that is wonderful!” he says, excited for her.

“It was. I also saw Sheriff Corbin and Joe… they were the first people I saw. Saw my dad, too, when he got here.” Crane nods, remembering how Ezra bravely met his end at the hands of a skinwalker. “You can find your family, too, if you want. I bet you want to talk to your dad.”

“So much to explain to him…” he sighs. “And I would love for you to meet my mother.”

Abbie smiles. “I would love that, and I want you to meet my mama, too.” She sighs. “Mama… it was so wonderful to see her and talk to her, _really_ talk to her. She was coherent. I'll… tell you about it later though. I'm sure you have more questions.”

He nods, knowing they have all the time in the world. “May we leave this house?” he asks. “Truly, wherever you are is where I wish to be, and if we must spend eternity on this small plot of land, I will be content so long as I am with you, but…”

“We can go wherever we want. You want a tropical beach? We can do that,” she answers. “But first,” she pauses, kissing his throat, “tell me.” She sets her head back down and closes her eyes to listen.

He doesn't need her to elaborate. She wants to know more about the last year of his life. About the other Witness. “Her name is Hannah Grace Dixon,” he starts. “I knew her as soon as I saw her.”

“Dixon,” she says, smiling.

Crane nods. “Witness bloodline, of course,” he confirms, kissing the top of her head. “She is a distant cousin to you and Miss Jenny. As is Agent Foster, we learned.”

“I… had a suspicion. There were some Fosters on that family tree you found. The one connecting Grace Dixon to me,” she says.

“We consulted that family tree and Agent Foster recognized a few of the names,” he replies. “So did Hannah.”

“Is she pretty?” Abbie asks.

“Um, yes. She is. But she is young. _Very_ young. Twenty-two,” he answers, biting back a smile at her unnecessary jealousy. “The only feelings I felt for her were similar to those of an older brother or perhaps a favorite uncle. Her true love, her _true_ Witness partner, will be found in my next form, I believe.”

“Hmm,” she responds, nodding. “That makes sense.” Her hand is on his chest, fingers drawing random patterns through his chest hair. She flattens her palm and notices his scar is no longer there. “I've missed the sound of your voice,” she absently adds. “How are Jenny and Sophie?”

“Agent Foster is very well. She has become Reynolds' right hand. Miss Jenny… she has found a reason to keep moving, keep living, thanks to Master Corbin,” he answers.

“Huh? Did he leave all that money to her?”

“Well, yes, but it _also_ turned out Miss Jenny was with child when Joe died,” Crane explains. “It is a miracle she did not lose the babe during that Tribulation, but she bore a healthy baby girl.”

“A girl?” Abbie says, lifting her head, her eyes brimming with tears.

“Grace Abigail Mills-Corbin, named for her beautiful, brave aunt,” he says. “Agent Foster and I are her godparents. She is called 'Gracie' and she is the most beautiful child I have ever seen.”

“I think you may be biased,” Abbie comments, blinking back tears. _I'm an aunt. And Jenny named her after me._

He sighs, drawing her back down into his arms. “Leaving her was the most difficult, but… Miss Jenny understood. She knew what I planned to do. She said she will tell little Gracie everything when she is old enough.”

“What if she is the next Witness after… what's her name? Hannah?” Abbie asks.

“Then she will be the most formidable Witness in history, I can assure you. Part Mills, part Corbin, with Auntie Sophie's influence… the child will be unstoppable,” Crane proudly declares.

“Damn straight,” she answers. “Auntie Sophie… that's wild. Um, how… how is Danny?”

“I assume he is well. He never warmed to me the way Agent Foster did. Always blamed me for your death, no matter what Miss Jenny or Agent Foster said to convince him otherwise.” He pauses. “He has recently begun dating a woman called Marisol. She is an ER nurse.”

“Good for him,” Abbie replies, actually meaning it. She knew things would have fizzled with Danny eventually, had she lived. He would not have been able to deal with her Witness lifestyle long-term.

“He had been ordered to watch you, did you know that?” Crane cautiously asks

“I had a suspicion,” she answers.

“Agent Foster told me shortly after you left,” he says, stroking her back. “Then, months later, some men in large black Cadillac SUVs appeared at the cemetery while I was visiting you. I was… _strongly encouraged_ to accompany them to their headquarters.”

“That doesn't sound good,” she says. “Who were they.”

“A secret society founded by General Washington, devoted to our cause.”

“Seriously?”

“Yes. They did turn out to be helpful, but… I could not help wondering why they took so long to reveal themselves to us,” he says. “Reynolds truly had no idea that his boss was involved.”

“How do you know?” she asks.

“I confronted him about it. We nearly came to blows,” he answers, chuckling about it now. “Agent Foster and Miss Jenny had to separate us.”

“I would have paid money to see that,” Abbie laughs. “Tell me more about Hannah.”

“I think you would have liked her. She was so like you, yet so… not. As I said, I knew her as soon as I saw her. I knew she was the other Witness. So I contrived a way to speak to her.”

“Where?”

“Donut Man,” he answers, and Abbie laughs again. “I pretended to be reading something on my phone and bumped into her. She looked up at me with these same brown eyes,” he gently rubs a thumb over her eyelids, “and said, 'It's you.' It seemed she recognized me as well.”

“That makes it easier,” she says, hooking her leg over his.

He nods. “Somewhat. She recently graduated from university with degrees in Anthropology and Religious Studies,” he explains, skimming his hand down her side to rest on her hip.

“Useful for being a Witness,” she interjects.

“Indeed. Though her combat skills were… quite lacking. Fortunately, Agent Foster and Miss Jenny were most helpful there. Once Miss Jenny was physically able again, of course,” he replies. “She told me she woke up one morning feeling 'different'. Like there was something new about her that she couldn't identify. She was living in Boston, looking for work, and she suddenly found herself searching for jobs and apartments in Sleepy Hollow without knowing why. Something compelled her to come here. Well… _there_ , I guess.”

“Wow.”

“She had been there two days when I finally spotted her. She said when she saw me it was like her eyes had been fully opened, and suddenly everything made sense. It is much how I felt when I first gazed upon you from my seat in that jail cell.”

“When I saw you for the first time, nothing made sense,” she laughs.

He huffs a small laugh and says, “Few things ever truly make sense, Lieutenant.”

“Except us,” she says, leaning over him now. She kisses him. “For two people who would seem to make no sense together at all…”

“We do,” he agrees, pulling her fully on top of him. “Because we are destined for each other. And you will always and forever be my dear, dear Lieutenant.”

She drops her head and kisses him. “You're my guy. Always.”


	9. Nothing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: suicide

Jenny finds him, in a corner of the archives, lanky body still swaying ever so slightly, kept in perpetual motion by the air blowing from the vents.

She wishes she could say she was surprised.

Six months. It's been six months and he was never able to move forward.

He tried, he really did. Got a job, developed a solid working relationship with the secret agency Washington founded that turned out to be enmeshed in the FBI. Made a half-hearted effort towards locating the “new” Witness. Put the feet on the floor, scoop food into mouth, trudge-trudge-trudge, lay the head on the pillow. Lather, rinse, repeat.

He _existed_. He didn't live

She can't understand the depths of his pain. She is incapable of fathoming the extent to which this strange, white, ancient British dude can be so deeply connected to her own _sister._ It would seem unfair, but for some reason, it worked. It fit. _They_ fit.

Jenny sighs, wiping an errant tear. _Everyone leaves me._ She knows her father is still around, but their relationship is still tentative at best. Reynolds has relocated, but she never much liked him anyway. Sophie is still around, thankfully, so she still has one friend.

“Damn you,” she sighs, pulling out her phone to text Sophie and Ezra. _Walsh will need to know, but fuck that guy right now._

She turns away, unable to look at his waxen face with its unmoving countenance. She can't leave him though. She won't. She busies herself looking around, seeing if he's left anything behind. He seems the type that would leave a note.

She sighs again as she sees a folded piece of parchment – honest-to-God _parchment_ – resting near an empty glass that contained rum (confirmed by the half-empty bottle nearby and a quick sniff) and his flintlock pistol, the only firearm he would use.

She picks it up and sits, expecting a thousand-word letter going on about how he can no longer bear the burden of living, blah, blah, blah.

Jenny unfolds the parchment and is surprised to see one sentence.

_I was correct: there was nothing in this world for me without her in it._


	10. How Many

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tumblr Ask: "Can somebody write a fic involving crane watching an old school tootsie pop commercial and him thinking if abbie were a tootsie pop how many licks would it take for him to reach her center?"

“How many licks does it take to get to _your_ center, Lieutenant?”

Abbie gapes at Crane. The potato chip she was about to eat tumbles from her fingers and lands on her chest. “What?” she finally manages, convinced there is _no way_ she heard him correctly. There is _no way_ he intended that question to sound as deliciously filthy as it did.

The old commercial had just flashed across their screen, and the question immediately followed.

_It's a commercial about candy. Candy._

As his eyes flit to the chip, balancing enviably in her cleavage, he leans towards her and repeats his question. “How many licks does it take to get past your rock-hard exterior to your soft, sweet center, Lieutenant?” His voice is dark and smooth, like the rum he so favors.

She nervously laughs. “Funny,” she says, her voice much weaker than she would like.

He moves closer still. “Oh, I am quite serious, Abbie,” he presses, calling her by her given name to drive his point home. To let her know exactly _how_ serious he is.

“Crane, I…” she starts and stops, at a complete loss for words.

“How many… and what kind, I wonder,” he muses, very nearly trapping her against the end of the couch. He knows he is playing with fire. He knows she could put him on his arse in less than 30 seconds without breaking a sweat. But her lips are parted… her breathing shallow… her pupils dilated. And as he leans closer, he would swear that she is trembling.

She bites her lower lip, waiting, wondering what he is going to say… or do… next. She even has a fleeting thought that he has been possessed by some sort of demon. But things have been quiet all week and his whereabouts have been accounted for 100% of that time.

“Would it be many small licks, flicking and teasing, little more than wet kisses on your skin?” he asks, his breath warm on her skin as he runs the end of his nose along the side of her neck. Then, without warning, he demonstrates a few such licks at the sensitive spot where her neck meets her shoulder.

Abbie gasps lightly, her hands clenching into fists in her lap as she wills them to stay put. Her heart is pounding and other parts of her may be throbbing a little as well, but she's not quite ready to address that yet.

“Or would it be simply one long, slow lick, hot and languid, that opens you up to me?” Crane continues. He lowers his head further, snags the chip from her bosom with his tongue, and draws it into his mouth with a muted crunch. “Mmm,” he hums, swallows, then leans down again to lick the salt residue from her skin, running his tongue from the deepest part of her cleavage to the side of her neck, just below her ear.

It is only when he lifts his head and looks into her eyes does she see the _real_ question there. The uncertainty behind those cocky blue eyes. It is only then she allows her self to truly see the longing there. The longing he has for her.

“Damn it, Crane,” she says, her voice a broken whisper. “You don't do anything by half measures, do you?” Then she grabs his face and pulls his lips against her open mouth.

He groans into her, immediately wrapping his arms around her as their tongues tangle, trading licks.

“So how many was that?” Abbie asks, breathless now, when he trails kisses down her jaw. His hand has found its way inside her shirt, his long fingers making her overheated skin tingle.

Crane lifts his head. “The world may never know,” he deadpans, then hauls her off the couch with him and carries her up to her bedroom.


	11. Somnambulation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Is there a reason you’re naked in my bed?”

Of all the things Ichabod Crane expected to find upon his return home from the Archives at 3 a.m. (he fell asleep face-down in a book), Miss Mills in his bed was _not_ one of them.

It wouldn't have even made the list.

He stands, frozen in place, in the doorway of his little room at the back of the house she is kind enough to share with him, afraid to move. _Do I wake her? Should I sleep on the couch?_ Going up to her room and sleeping in her bed doesn't even enter his mind. He only did that while she was away in the Catacombs, and though she was very understanding when he confessed, he promised himself he would not cross that line again.

And yet.

Here _she_ is, like a tiny angel in a purple head scarf, somehow taking up his entire bed.

He steps closer on silent stockinged feet, carefully sets his coat on the chair, and leans over her.

_Oh. Oh dear. Oh dear oh dear._

She is at least topless. He can't see anything indiscreet, but there are no straps from a tank top or… anything that would indicate she has on any clothes. At least on her top half.

He's seen her before bed, usually wearing an old t-shirt and some shorts (or sometimes not, if the shirt is long enough. He tries not to think about that too much because it makes him sweaty), but he doesn't _truly_ know what she wears to sleep.

_Surely she wouldn't be so impractical to sleep nude… what if there is an emergency in the middle of the night? What if a demon manages to find this house and decides to attack while we slumber? Would she battle him wearing nothing but her guns?_

_That is precisely what she would do._ His eyes widen at _that_ particular mental image, and he feels beads of sweat start to form. He files that thought away with the others, other thoughts that he only unlocks in the dead of night – like now – but when he is alone. Very much alone.

Thoughts like Abbie doing yoga in the cabin. And the time he had to boost her up to reach that lantern and her glorious, round backside was very nearly pressed against his face. And the time he regained consciousness from the scorpion venom with his head cradled in her bosom.

The list gets longer each day.

He exhales heavily, and steps back, bumping into a bookshelf. He curses softly as a book topples to the floor with a loud _thud._

He watches as she stirs awake. When she sits up, he wheels around, facing away.

“Crane?” she asks, confused. “What are you doing in my room?”

“I do beg your pardon, Lieutenant, but it is _you_ who are in _my_ room,” he stammers. He knows his face must be as red as General Howe's military coat.

“Oh,” Abbie replies, waking up more. “Oh, damn.” There is a rustle of blankets, and she says, “You can turn around.”

“Why… why are you… apparently naked… in my bed?” Crane asks, slowly turning around. She has the blankets tucked around her, covering her.

She stares up at him with a look that indicates that he has just asked a ridiculous question. “Well, considering I just accused you of being in my room, do you really think I know?” she retorts.

He holds his hands up in surrender. “Forgive me. I was… not thinking clearly,” he says. He knows he wasn't thinking clearly because whatever blood that hasn't flooded to his face has taken up residence in his groin just at the thought of her bare body in his bed.

“I think I was sleepwalking,” she quietly says. “Shit. I haven't done that in years…”

“Perhaps you should consider wearing pajamas if somnambulation is going to be an issue,” he recommends.

She looks up and fixes him in a steely gaze. “I _was_ dressed when I went to bed,” she says. “And sit down, I'm getting a stiff neck looking up this far at you.”

He looks around a minute, then gingerly perches on the edge of the bed. “So… you… disrobed, walked down here, and climbed into my bed,” he ponders. “I do not see any sign of your garments in here and did not see any in the house,” he explains.

She puts her head in her hands, then flops back, lying back down. “Ugh. If it's not one thing, it's another. First it's a… rune thing making me think I'm crazy, now it's the return of sleepwalking.”

“How did you make it stop the first time?” Crane asks. He has a feeling he knows when she experienced her first bout: after her childhood ordeal in the forest with Jenny.

“Jenny slept with me,” Abbie answers, carefully sitting up again. “If I had someone there, I wouldn't wander. I'd sleep better, too.” She looks down when she says this.

“Well then,” he declares with more confidence than he feels. “I shall simply go retrieve your sleeping garments, give you a moment to dress, and…” he trails off, not able to actually speak the words but hoping she understands.

She looks up at him. Then she presses her lips together and closes her eyes. “Or you could just strip down and join me,” she quickly says before she loses her nerve.

He leaps to his feet. “Oh… I… I don't think that would be a—”

“Forget it then,” she cuts him off. “Just turn around and I'll go back—”

“Abbie.”

She stops. And waits.

“Do not misunderstand,” he says, sitting back down. “My hesitance only comes from the knowledge that if I followed your recommendation,” he leans closer to her, “neither of us would be getting any sleep for the rest of this night.” His voice has gone very dark and low, and his expression is positively feral.

She leans towards him, allowing the blankets to slip down. Her lips are a hair's breadth away from his when she asks, “What makes you think that wasn't what I had in mind?”


	12. The Return

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “You fainted…straight into my arms. You know, if you wanted my attention you didn’t have to go to such extremes.”

“Abbie…”

He breathed her name, barely audible, then down he went. She was so close that she got caught up, gravity did its thing, and Abbie found herself under 190 pounds of unconscious Ichabod Crane.

She wiggled slightly to get herself to a semblance of a seated position, cradling him in her lap, idly thinking _this is the third time we've been in this position now._

_But I suppose my returning from the dead would be a bit of a shock._

She loosens his coat as best she can, trying to get him some air. She wishes she had some water, but she'll make do. She lightly pats his cheek.

“Crane,” she says. “Ichabod.”

He slowly stirs, pressing his face into her groin for a second as he rouses himself. Abbie isn't sure if he is fully aware of what he is doing, but she certainly is, judging by her racing, very much alive, heart.

“Crane,” she repeats. “Up and at 'em, Captain.”

He fully opens his eyes, but doesn't lift himself, leaving his head cradled in her lap. “What happened?”

“You kind of fainted… on me,” she explains. “You really know how to get a girl's attention.”

He finally sits up, then reaches up and touches her face, almost as if he's testing to see if she's real. “How…?”

“I don't know,” she answers. Suddenly suspicious of demonic involvement, Crane's eyes narrow, so she says, “Cappuccino with your damn face drawn in the foam. Maple bacon bourbon donut. It was the last meal we shared. I brushed crumbs out of your mustache.” She reaches over and lightly strokes his beard with her fingertips.

He lunges so suddenly she nearly pokes him in the eye as he wraps his giant albatross arms around her in a crushing hug. “Abbie,” he chokes, overcome now that he's allowed himself to feel again. “It's been six months… six unbearable months.”

“I know,” she answers, stroking his hair ( _is it shorter still?_ ), letting her fingers tangle in the soft brown waves. “I know.”

He brushes his lips against her cheek as he draws back. “Abbie… Lieutenant…” he starts, and her heart leaps hearing him call her “Lieutenant” again. “I was too cowardly to say it before, and I have regretted it every day for the last six months…” he lifts her hand and kisses her knuckles, then presses his cheek against them, just as he did on the porch when they said farewell. “I love you. Pandora saw it… she said you were my hope… my everything. She was right. You were. And you still are.” He kisses her hand again. “My heart only began beating again when I saw you standing here… just before I…”

“Fainted,” Abbie weakly finishes, her voice hoarse as her eyes blur with tears. She blinks and they spill over her cheeks. Crane immediately, tenderly wipes them away. “Oh, Crane…” she exhales. “What am I going to do with you?” She looks up at him, gazing down at her with that familiar expression, an expression in which she can only now recognize the love that has always been there. Love that she would never allow herself to see before.

“Love me… or don't,” he whispers, “but do not leave me ever again.”

She leans forward and gently presses her lips against his in a soft kiss. “I do… and I won't.”


	13. Thunderstorm

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “We’re in the middle of a thunderstorm and you wanna stop and feel the rain?”

When the fires died down, the rains started. Heavy, unrelenting, _cleansing_ rains.

And lightning. And thunder.

Abbie and Crane dashed for cover, sheltering beneath the overhang of a storefront. He tries the door, which is, of course, locked.

Sleepy Hollow is Officially Closed Due to Apocalypse.

The Witnesses are battered, bruised, and heartsore, but very much alive.

In Abbie's case, a little _too_ much so. She can't seem to stop moving, practically vibrating in the small space.

Lightning splits the sky. A few seconds later, thunder booms from above.

“Lieutenant, are you all right?” Crane asks, finally noting her unusually fidgety demeanor.

“Yeah,” she answers, looking up at him, her face bright, her eyes almost wild. “We're _alive_ , Crane. We _stopped_ it. We _won!_ ” And with that, she peels her coat off and dances out into the rain.

“Lieutenant!” he yells, unable to believe his eyes. Out of all the things he's seen in his strange life, both horrible and wonderful, nothing compares to the sight of Special Agent Grace Abigail Mills gleefully jumping about in the rain like a little girl. “Abbie!”

“Come on, Crane, celebrate with me!” she shouts, holding her hand out. She closes her eyes and lifts her face to the sky. “Enjoy the feeling of the rain… enjoy being alive!”

“We have just averted the end of the world, are in the middle of a thunderstorm, and you wish to… frolic about and _feel the rain_?” he asks, incredulous. Still, the sight of her, euphoric, her clothes now clinging enticingly to her curvaceous body, is a little too tempting. They've lost so much in their seven year battle. So many people, both strangers and loved ones. They've given up so much of their own lives. And now it's over.

Of course he gives in.

He peels his coat off as well and hangs it on the door handle. Then he hangs hers up as well. He strides out into the rain as dignified as he can, spine straight, hands clasped behind his back.

Abbie watches him approach, smirking. “ _This_ is you enjoying being alive?” she asks.

Crane allows just the corner of his mouth to turn up and raises an eyebrow at her. Lightning strikes again, and he waits for the following clap of thunder before he speaks. “No,” he answers, now standing right in front of her. “This,” he cups her face with his hands, “is me enjoying being alive,” he finishes, murmuring as he lowers his head to kiss her.

To his complete surprise, she immediately returns his kiss, almost taking control of it as she fists the front of his shirt and slips her tongue between his lips.

“Abbie,” he breathes, breaking the kiss just to return and kiss her more deeply. She is sweet and decadent and he wonders why – and how – he denied himself this bliss for so long.

“Damn, Captain, you _do_ know how to celebrate,” Abbie exhales, releasing him only because her neck was getting stiff.

“I believe it is time to return home, Lieutenant,” Crane suggests.

“Yeah,” she agrees. “Let's go home and get out of these wet clothes.” Then she runs back to the doorway where their coats are, grabs them, and runs to her car, leaving him standing, dumbstruck, for just a moment before he darts after her, practically falling over himself in his haste to get to the car.


	14. Massage

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Do you… well… I mean… I could give you a massage?”

“Oohhhhhh…” Crane's groan reaches Abbie's ears in the kitchen. It doesn't sound like a good kind of groan at all. Curious, she checks the tie on her robe, pours a second cup of coffee, and pads back to his room in the back of her house.

A soft curse floats through the door just before she knocks, and she has to stifle a giggle. “You okay in there?”

“Do I bloody sound 'okay'?” he crossly replies.

“Can I come in?” she asks.

“Yes.”

She carefully holds both mugs in one hand and opens the door. “Yesterday's fall was a little worse than you let on, hey?” she asks, holding his mug out for him.

“Thank you.” He sits up a little to take it, wincing as he does so. “I assure you I was not being proud, Lieutenant, but it seems the after-effects are indeed worse than I was expecting,” he replies. He takes a sip of the coffee and adds, “It seems I am not as spry as I once was.” He sets the coffee on the nightstand and lies back down, exhaling heavily.

“Yeah, I heard that,” she agrees, sitting on the edge of his mattress. “Where do you hurt?”

“It feels like there is a… line of fire extending up my back, just beside my spine,” he answers, twisting this way and that on the bed, clearly uncomfortable.

Abbie sips her coffee, debating about speaking her thought. Then Crane tries to reach for his coffee again, and she decides. “Do you… well… I mean… I could give you a massage?”

He abandons his attempt to reach his coffee and stares at her. “Lieutenant?”

“It might help your back if I… you know, rub the knotted muscle for you. I have some stuff upstairs that will help…”

He looks like he just swallowed a whole egg and it has stuck in his throat. He wants to refuse because it would mean her putting her hands on his bare skin, but he also wants to consent for the exact same reason. In the end, discomfort wins out. “Very well,” he agrees.

“I'll be right back,” she says, then flees a little too quickly. _What have I just agreed to do? Agreed, yeah, nice try, you_ offered _to do this._

She returns a few minutes later to find him sitting up and looking pathetic. “I find I need your assistance,” he admits. “I cannot…” he looks down at his nightshirt, bunched around his waist, the rest of him covered by blankets.

“Here,” she hands him two pills and a glass of water. “Ibuprofen. Take these while you're still sitting up.”

He obediently does so, then hands the glass back to Abbie, who he notices is now dressed in a t-shirt and yoga pants instead of her robe covering whatever she was sleeping in the previous night.

“All right,” she says. “We need to get this off of you and then you'll need to lie on your stomach.” She tries for a businesslike demeanor to mask her somewhat-unreasonable anxiety over what she's about to do.

“Be gentle,” he replies as she reaches for his long white nightshirt.

“If you'd sleep in normal pajamas, this wouldn't be a problem,” she says.

“Such… ah… as?” he grunts, trying to help as best he can.

“Shorts and a t-shirt… actual men's pajamas that button down the front so we wouldn't have to pull this over your head… arms up please… or just underwear,” she says, pulling the garment over his head.

He groans, then carefully maneuvers so he is on his stomach on the bed. “In summer I would more often than not sleep nude,” he admits, not really sure why he felt the need to tell her this. “Of course we didn't have modern conveniences like air conditioning then,” he quickly adds, grateful his face is mostly hidden.

“Oh, people still sleep naked,” she says, kneeling on the bed beside him. She rubs some liniment on her hands, then places them on his back. His skin is warm and surprisingly soft, and somehow that loosens her lips enough to say, “I do, sometimes.” Then she quickly says, “Not since you've been living here, obviously.”

Crane grunts some kind of reply that Abbie doesn't bother trying to decipher, concentrating on the long lines of his back. He's quite well-formed, she realizes, a little surprised to learn that the broadness of his shoulders isn't augmented that much by his coat. He's got that nice V-shape from his shoulders to his waist, and as she runs her hands up and down the knotted line of muscles just to the right of his spine, she finds herself quietly humming, her mind wandering.

_I wonder what he would do if I leaned down and kissed his back? Or if I pushed the blankets down… does he have on those weird colonial bloomers or is he wearing the boxer briefs I left in his room? Is he wearing any underwear at all? His arms are pretty good, too… a little skinny, but there's some muscle there._

“Lieutenant?”

His voice snaps her back and she wonders if he's been talking this whole time. “Sorry, what?”

“I said you can press harder if you are able… I promise you I will not break,” he repeats.

“Oh, okay. My mind was wandering, sorry,” she apologizes again. She tries to put a little more pressure on his back, but the angle is awkward. “Um… yeah. Don't freak out,” she warns him just before she swings her leg over him and straddles his backside.

“Oh dear,” he mutters, pressing his face into his pillow. Then he groans again, but he's not sure if it's because she's succeeded in getting the leverage she needs to deepen the massage or because she's straddling him.

“Too much?” she asks, stopping.

“The… pressure is fine,” he says. “Please continue.”

“Okay,” she says, trying to ignore the fact that he's got more ass than she was expecting him to have. She can feel the firm roundness of it under her, and it's got her thinking those thoughts again.

She could deal with these wayward thoughts if it was just a physical thing. As a police officer and now an FBI agent, she's been in close proximity to handsome, fit men plenty of times.

A handsome, fit man who also looks at her like she hung the moon and regularly delivers speeches that sound like either love sonnets or wedding vows is a bit of a problem. A handsome, fit man who has become her best friend and rock, who has quite literally put his life on the line for her and will do so again is a large problem.

She leans forward, sliding her hands up to his shoulders. “You have a lot of back,” she comments. _That was dumb._

“I apologize for not being… what was the phrase? 'Fun sized' like you, my dear Miss Mills,” he replies.

“I wouldn't have you any other way, Crane,” she answers, pressing her thumbs into the muscles between his shoulder blades.

“I wholeheartedly concur, Lieutenant,” he agrees, sighing.

“Better?” she asks.

He hesitates a moment before answering, “Yes.”

Her hands still, but remain on his back. “Why the pause? If you're still sore…”

“I hesitated because I knew if I said I felt better you would stop,” Crane admits. “And I am not yet ready for you to leave my bed.”

Abbie sits and blinks a few times, trying to decipher his meaning. Trying to decide if this is another one of those times where he says something without realizing how it sounds. “Crane, did you just…?” she quietly asks, not even sure what she's really asking.

He rolls to his side, still a bit gingerly, but much easier, and Abbie jumps up and moves her leg so she sitting on the bed beside him. She can see the waistband of his underwear just above the edge of the blankets. It is gray and says HANES, and she bites back a smile.

“Did I just what?” he asks. She can tell he is trying very hard to keep his expression casual, almost smug.

 _Oh, you want to play, huh?_ She slides down, stretching out beside him on the bed, propping her head on her hand. With her other, she reaches over and brushes his unruly hair away from his face, her fingers lingering a bit longer than necessary. His lips part and she knows she's obtained the upper hand. She leans her face dangerously close to his. “Proposition me?” she finishes her question as a whisper, her lips within easy kissing distance. “I hardly think you're in any shape for any of… _that_ sort of activity.” Then she leans back, leaving him momentarily stunned.

Or so she thinks.

“Oh, my dear Abbie, you underestimate the healing powers of your hands,” he says, lifting her hand and kissing it. He turns it and kisses the inside of her wrist, careful to avoid her palms, which still smell of the liniment she rubbed into his back, then up the inside of her arm. He tugs just enough to make her topple forward into him. “You are a wonder, Grace Abigail Mills, and I should have told you how I feel about you months ago,” he murmurs, then catches her lips in a kiss that leaves Abbie with no questions at all about his feelings.

She melts into him, then finds herself being pressed back into the pillows as he moves over her, his tongue moving languidly against hers. Her hand slides up into his hair, fully surrendering to her hidden desires. “Oh,” she lightly gasps as he moves to place sucking kisses on her neck.

“Ah,” Crane lets out a strangled cry, followed by, “Bugger.” He carefully rolls onto his back, his face pained for more than one reason.

“Hands still need to work on their healing powers, hey?” Abbie asks, moving to his side and smiling down at him.

He groans again. “This will be continued, I assure you,” he says, his eyes still full of desire as he looks at her. Then he closes them and adds, “As soon as I can move again.”


	15. On the DL

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “No one needs to know” (prompt from nikidanger)

It was much hotter than Abbie was expecting. Hotter and more intense. She wasn't expecting to have her world rocked. Her mind blown.

Crane has some stamina.

And _game._

And apparently, he isn't finished with her, judging by the way his hand is creeping up from resting on her stomach to between her breasts. And the way she is getting prodded in the backside.

“Crane…” she half-moans, half sighs, flexing her hips backwards against him.

His lips skim her neck. “You are more addictive than any libation…” he nips the edge of her ear, “any drug… any…”

She suddenly turns. “Exactly what drugs have you done—mmm…”

He stops her query with a kiss, plunging his tongue into her mouth, kissing her with as much passion and hunger as he did an hour ago, when he took her quite by surprise after a particularly intense game of chess.

He lost the game, but he can't help thinking he still won overall.

“Wouldn't you like to know?” he rumbles, settling over her again, nestling his hips comfortably between her thighs. He stares down at her a moment, almost like he can't believe they are finally here, in her bed, hearts given and received.

“Actually, I kinda would,” she says, lifting her head to nuzzle his nose. “But maybe later.”

“Good,” he declares, leaning down to kiss her again.

Abbie's phone interrupts them. “Crane,” she says.

“Ignore it.”

“It's work… I can't.”

He sighs, rolling off of her to watch appreciatively as she leans over to grab her phone. He reaches out and palms her rear end, and she bites back a laugh as she answers. “Agent Mills.” She tries to ignore his wandering hands while she listens. “Okay, great, thanks. I've been waiting for those lab results, yeah. See you tomorrow.”

“Reynolds?” he asks once she disconnects.

“It was Sophie, so you can come down out of Alpha mode,” she answers. “Don't think I haven't notice how you get all… peacocky when he's around, preening and puffing and invading my personal space.”

His mouth twitches, caught. “I do not _preen_ ,” he protests despite the fact that she is correct.

She laughs, and leans down to kiss him. Her phone rings again. “Jenny.” She rolls back over to answer it. “Hey.” This time she allows him to pull her down beside him and he busies himself peppering her neck and shoulder with kisses. “Nah, I'mma stay in. I promised Crane he could pick a movie and I would watch it…” she pauses, biting her lower lip when he finds a particularly sensitive spot, “without complaint.” She listens a minute, then says, “Try Sophie. She just called about the carbon dating on those tablets, so she's around. Yes, I'm sure.”

“Master Corbin is working, I gather?” Crane asks, kissing lower.

“Yeah,” Abbie breathily answers. “Hey, um… Ichabod?” she asks. His first name feels strange to say; she so rarely uses it.

He lifts his head. “Yes, my sweet?”

“Do you think we can keep… this,” she gestures between them, “on the down low? At least for a little while? Now that you're, like, officially working as a consultant, it might look, you know…”

“Ah. I understand,” he says. “Of course. No one needs to know.”

He looks a bit disappointed, so she cups his face in her hands, pulling him back up. “I know you're probably ready to shout from the mountaintops,” she gently says, sweetly pecking his lips. “And I also know that about 95% of people that see us together already assume we're _together_ , and I promise I'm not embarrassed or anything, but… it's just… I've worked too hard to get where I am to have people start getting the wrong ideas about how I got there… or about how _you_ got the consulting gig.”

He nods, and kisses her once more. “Abbie,” he says. “I told you I understood, and I do. When you are ready, we can let the proverbial cat out of the bag. I am quite content to have you all to myself until then.” He kisses her again, longer, leaving her slightly breathless.

“Our little secret,” she says. He settles between her thighs again. “Or maybe not so little,” she says, giggling.

–

Jenny marches through their back door during breakfast the next morning. Abbie and Crane had been enjoying a simple breakfast of scrambled eggs, toast, and coffee while sitting very close together and talking quietly. Crane had barely gotten his fork out of Abbie's mouth when Jenny appeared in the doorway.

“Oh. My. God,” she declares, taking two steps inside. She pulls out her phone and starts texting.

“Jenny?” Abbie asks, standing and walking over to her sister. “You wanna let us in on whatever you're so stunned about?”

“Hang on,” she says, staring at her phone. Abbie leans over and sees she is texting both Joe and Sophie something about them each owing her $50. She glances over at Crane, motioning for him to stay where he is. Jenny pockets her phone and looks at Abbie. “You guys totally had sex. With each other.”

Abbie keeps her expression carefully neutral, but her eyebrows rise. “What makes you say that?”

“Oh my God,” Jenny repeats, “You did! You _totally_ did the nasty… more than once, from how red Crane's face is right now.”

“Miss Jenny, I—”

Abbie holds up her hand. “Don't bother,” she sighs. “You text Larry and Curly there and tell them to keep their damn mouths shut,” she orders her sister. She sighs. “Damn it. I should have known better than to try and keep something from you.”

“Damn right,” Jenny says, but she obediently takes her phone out and sends the text. “About damn time, too.”


	16. Green

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Wait a minute. Are you jealous?” (prompt from randihall3000)

“So what was courtship like back in the day?” Abbie asks, leaning back in her chair.

Crane puts his phone down, setting it carefully on the table. “Quite different from today's customs,” he answers.

She rolls her eyes. “Well, _yeah_ , that's why I'm asking.”

“You truly want to know?” he asks, and she nods. “Why?” he asks, narrowing his eyes.

She half-shrugs. “Maybe I can give you some pointers. I mean, I know things didn't work out with Zoe, but there's bound to be someone else who takes your fancy,” she says, trying to sound casual. In truth, she'd rather have him not date anyone. She is 100% not jealous, but with their lifestyle and mission, romance is just too difficult to fit in. 95% not jealous. 80%.

“Well, by the standards of the time, I am positively ancient,” he starts. “Most men set their sights on a young woman – or their father chooses one for them – by their late teens, but would not actually marry until he was in his twenties and had a means of employment.”

“I guess I would be classified as a 'spinster', hey?” she asks, chuckling.

“Quite,” he answers. “Or worse, unfortunately.”

“Yeah, we don't need to go there,” she agrees. “What else?”

He presses his lips together a moment. “I feel I should disclaim this information with the simple fact that… dalliances were nearly as common then as they are now. Often a woman would already be with child by the time she walked down the aisle to be wed, and when the infant was born seven months hence, people simply pretended not to notice. Publicly, at any rate,” he explains.

“Some things never change,” she observes. “So y'all were sneaking around in the barn and all that, but you were supposed to be taking chaperoned outings and doing, what, little more than holding hands until you were _betrothed_?” she asks, drawing out the last word in an exaggerated British accent.

“Indeed,” Crane says. “For a man and his young lady to be alone together in public was highly frowned upon. In private; most scandalous.”

Abbie snorts. “Hell, by those rules, you and I may as well be married.”

He raises an eyebrow and slightly tilts his head in acknowledgement. “We do live under the same roof and go about un-chaperoned nearly all the time,” he says. “We freely touch one another, share meals…” He drifts off, looking up at her. “There is no one I trust more or to whom I have been closer.”

She feels her cheeks heat and looks down, unable to hold his gaze.

He scoots forward in his seat, reaching for her hand. “A man may indeed hold his lady's hand,” he says, skimming his thumb across the back of hers. “He may even kiss it, but only the back or knuckles,” he adds, demonstrating this with a soft brush of his lips on her knuckles.

“Why is that?” she asks, her voice hushed.

“Well,” he says, turning her hand in his. He presses his lips to her palm, and she immediately understands.

“Oh,” she softly exclaims, surprised at the warmth that spread from her hand to the rest of her body from that one kiss.

He strokes her palm with his thumb. “Very sensitive,” he says, lifting her hand again and kissing the inside of her wrist, over her pulse point.

She bites her lower lip as a very quiet moan escapes. It is so soft it is almost a whimper.

“Oh,” Crane suddenly seems to realize what he's doing, and jumps back, releasing her. He even stands and walks a few steps away.

Abbie stares down at her hand, irrationally wishing he was still holding it. “I wonder if kissing has changed any…” she muses, half to herself.

“What was that?” he asks, turning back to face her. He heard her quite plainly, but simply wants to see if she's brave enough to repeat it.

“Nothing,” she answers, closing her hand into a fist. “I… I can't think of any pointers right now,” she shortly says, remembering her original reason – which now feels like a ruse – for bringing up this topic. “You'll be fine. With whomever you wish to _court._ ”

He gives her a strange look, then walks back over to her. “Miss Mills, are you… are you jealous?” he asks.

“What?” she answers too quickly, her voice too high. “Jealous? Of whom? You're not even dating anyone. I mean, yeah, I can't say I'm sorry that Zoe dumped you—”

“She did not 'dump' me.”

“—but you are certainly free to romance whatever bland, mousy little white girl that takes your fan—mm!”

His lips are on hers so fast she stiffens in shock, but just for a second. She relaxes into his kiss, but just for a second.

“Crane,” she says, pulling away. “What was that?”

“Did I do it wrong?” he asks. “Perhaps I should try again, since my intent seems unclear.” He wraps her in his arms and kisses her again, this time putting more into it. More of what he feels for her, the ardor he can no longer keep hidden.

“Damn,” she exhales, dropping her head against his chest. “ _Damn_ , Crane.”

She doesn't sound angry. Quite the opposite, in fact. She sounds impressed. “Abbie?” he asks, lifting her chin.

He kisses her once more, softly groaning as he lightly sucks on her lower lip. “Either my behavior hasn't been clear enough, or you have been willfully blind,” he murmurs. “Because I am in no way interested in courting any 'bland, mousy little white girl.' You alone hold my heart, Abbie.”

“You could have been a little more obvious about it,” she says, grinning despite herself. “Of course, Jenny always did have to point out when a guy was flirting with me, so…”

“Oh!” he huffs in mock offense. “I never _flirt_!” he exclaims.

“The hell you don't! I have seen you… using that charm to get yourself a free extra scone at Starbuck's… smooth-talking your way into places you have no business being, as far as they know…” she laughs.

He sighs. “Alas, it works on everyone apart from the one person for whom I truly wish it to,” he dramatically laments.

“Shut up,” she says, but not unkindly, pulling him down for another kiss. It quickly grows heated, open-mouthed and hungry, as they explore each other with both tongues and hands.

“Shall we sneak off to the barn for a little dalliance?” he asks in her ear before lightly biting her earlobe.

“How about we just go upstairs and get naked?” she returns, placing a sucking kiss on his neck.

“Scandalous!” he exclaims in an exaggeratedly shocked whisper before whisking her off of her feet and carrying her up the stairs.


	17. The Way We Met

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by the song "The Way We Met" by Morphine

“So, how, exactly, did you two meet anyway? I don't think you've ever told us.”

Abbie's head turns towards Ichabod's so fast she nearly injures herself. Her eyes are wide, her expression just this side of panicked. _We didn't come up with a story._

“Um, at a local pub, Mr. Mills,” Ichabod answers, slipping his hand into Abbie's and giving it a gentle squeeze. As far as they have been able to deduce, that much is true.

They both remember going _to_ the pub that night.

  


xXx

  


_Abbie's eyes open a crack, then immediately close, the brightness of the sun sending daggers into her brain. She opens them again and spies the time: 8:12 a.m._

_“Shit!” she shouts, limbs flailing as she frantically tries to untangle herself from the blankets and… arms? And legs?_

_It's only then that she realizes that the clock she looked at was not hers._

_It is also then that the arms and legs pinning her to the bed start doing some flailing of their own, accompanied by some cursing that sounds strangely… British?_

_“Why didn't my alarm clock sound?” he grumbles, then picks up his phone. He flops back onto the pillows. “It's Saturday.” He turns and sees a very beautiful, very confused, very naked woman staring at him. “Who are you?”_

_“I was about to ask you the same thing,” she answers._

  


xXx

  


Ezra Mills looks slightly disappointed. “You met at a bar,” he echoes.

“Dad, I'm nearly 30. I'm allowed to go to bars,” Abbie says, rolling her eyes. “And it wasn't a seedy nightclub. It was Mabie's, which is a nice, quiet pub.”

“They have an excellent Taco Tuesday special,” Ichabod adds.

“Oh, is that when you met? Taco Tuesday? I didn't think you liked tacos, Abbie,” Lori Mills pipes in.

“I do like tacos now, Mom,” Abbie answers. “When I was a kid, my mom had to keep some plain ground beef aside for me to have for my tacos because I didn't like the sauce,” she tells her new fiancé. “I've since learned the error of my ways,” she says. She turns to her mother. “No, we didn't meet on Taco Tuesday,” she says. “It was a Friday night.” _More like Fried Brain Friday._

“I was fairly new in town, and my friend Abraham decided I needed to experience some of the local nightlife,” Ichabod says. “I hadn't planned on staying long.”

“Well, sometimes that happens,” Ezra replies, nodding. “Meeting the love of your life can make time feel irrelevant.”

Abbie turns her snort of laughter into a cough, and Ichabod gently pats her back, hiding his face behind his hair to mask the fact that he can no longer keep a straight face.

  


xXx

  


_“It appears to be very cold out this morning,” Ichabod says, groping around. “You don't happen to see a remote control anywhere, do you?” he asks._

_Abbie looks around and sees it on the floor beside the bed. “It's over here,” she answers, leaning down to pick it up. When she straightens up again, clutching the sheets to her chest with one hand and the remote with the other, she finds him giving her an appreciative, lustful gaze._

_“You have the most glorious backside,” he says, staring her straight in the eyes as he lifts the remote from her hand._

_She stares back, his direct compliment catching her off guard. “I thought you British types were supposed to be reserved,” she says after a moment. “You are British, right?”_

_“I am,” he replies. “I also know a beautiful arse when I see one,” he adds, raising an eyebrow._

_Something jogs in Abbie's memory._ That eyebrow. That's what did it. His stupid, panty-dropping blue eyes with those lethal eyebrows. _“Um, thanks,” she finally answers. She has to use the bathroom, but can see no sign of any clothes within reach, and she'll be damned if she's going to just waltz to the toilet – wherever it is – buck naked in front of a man she just met. Never mind the fact that they had what her muscles are telling her was likely very ambitious sex last night. Twice, judging from the condom wrappers on the nightstand._

_“I know this is all very strange, but… are you all right?” he asks._

_“I have to pee,” she blurts._

_“Ah. Oh,” he says, suddenly understanding. Apparently unconcerned, he flips the covers back, gets out of bed, and pulls a t-shirt out of a drawer. “I'm sure your clothing is around here somewhere,” he says, handing it to her. “However, I don't see any sign of it in here, so…” he trails off, noticing her stare._

_“Wow,” she says, slowly raising her eyes to his face. “No wonder I'm sore this morning.” He is tall and broad-shouldered, his body consisting of long, lean muscle and almost zero fat. She gathers her wits, takes the shirt, and slips it over her head as he climbs back into bed. “Thanks.”_

_“You're welcome,” he answers. “The loo is just through that door,” he points. As she gets out of bed and walks to the bathroom, he flips on the television and calls, “And thank you for the compliment, Abbie.”_

  


xXx

  


Lori Mills hands Ichabod and Abbie each a cup of coffee. “I have to say I'm still surprised that you met in a bar,” she says. “Or pub,” she corrects herself. “Whatever you want to call it. I didn't think you would go for a guy trying to pick up on you like that, Abbie, no matter how handsome he is.” She smiles at Ichabod, then returns to her seat.

“Well, there was just something about him,” Abbie answers, hoping it's true. It certainly is now, and no one was more surprised than she. She shrugs and flippantly adds, “Must be the accent.” She grins up at Ichabod, who chuckles fondly at her.

“I thought she was the most beautiful woman I had ever seen,” he says. “Still do. But I was… dumbstruck by her. I wanted to send her a drink, but I didn't want to seem… cliché.”

“Then I sent him one,” Abbie says, giving him a challenging glance. _All right, you want to spin some tales, we'll spin some tales_ her expression seems to say.

“Oh, so you picked up on him!” Lori says. “Must run in the family. I had to make the first move with your father, too.”

“You did not,” Ezra protests.

“Who do you think told August to tell you to ask me out?” she asks, raising her eyebrows at him.

Ezra's mouth opens, then closes. Then he starts laughing. “You have to look out for these Mills women, Crane,” he says.

“Indeed, sir,” Ichabod agrees. “But I must say she did not _exactly_ 'pick up on me', as you so quaintly put it. Once she sent the drink, I approached her.”

  


xXx

  


_When Abbie comes back, Ichabod is still lounging in bed. She pauses beside it, unsure._

_“You are welcome to return,” he says, turning the television off. “The high temperature today is a paltry ten degrees, so if you have no plans, it is indeed a fine day to spend cuddled in a nice warm bed.”_

_She gets back into bed, leaving his shirt on. It's rather comfortable, despite the fact that it hangs on her like a circus tent. “Sure, why not?” she asks. The shirt is blue and says_ Oxford University _on it, so she asks, “Did you go to Oxford?”_

_“Yes,” he answers, looking over at her. She's twisted her hair into a braid now and he can see more of her face._

_“Oh, fancy,” she says, scooting closer to him. He is very warm and she got a bit cold on her trek to the bathroom – where she of course looked inside his medicine cabinet. She didn't see any red flags, so she reasoned it was safe enough to stick around a little while longer. She also took a couple of his Tylenol._

_“Not terribly. History is my chosen field, which can hardly be considered 'fancy',” he chuckles. “I am certain I would have asked you this last night, but what is it you do for a living?”_

_She smiles. “I'm a sheriff's detective.”_

_His eyebrows rise, impressed. “Very impressive,” he says._

_“Well, my degree isn't from a prestigious university or anything, but I like to think I'm doing some good,” she replies, moving closer still. He gets the hint and wraps an arm around her, pulling her to his side._

_“I am certain you are,” he says. He pauses a moment, then looks down at her and adds, “You must be the captain; you have a very commanding presence.”_

_She snorts a laugh as she rests her head on his shoulder. “Lieutenant. Frank Irving is the man in charge. I'm a little young to be Captain yet.”_

_“One day, perhaps?” he asks, realizing he is completely unaware of her ambitions._

_“Perhaps,” she confirms, beginning to understand why she went home with this guy in the first place._ He's quite charming. _She allows her arm to stretch out a little, resting her hand on the center of his chest._

_“You are very petite,” he observes, his hand exploring a little. “And I must say you look quite fetching in my shirt.”_

_“It's comfy. How tall are you?”_

_“I am just under two meters tall,” he answers. “That would be six-foot-one to you.”_

_“You're a whole foot taller than me,” she responds. “Damn, no_ wonder _I'm sore today.”_

_“I am sorry for your discomfort,” he apologizes._

_She looks up at him. “Somehow I don't think you need to be sorry,” she says._

_Then he leans his head down and kisses her. It doesn't bring back any memories of the previous night, but it does answer his question about why he felt the need to bring this woman home in the first place. Her lips are the most decadent, delightfully sinful things he has ever tasted and he knows he will never have enough of them._

  


xXx

  


“…And we just sat in the booth and talked until last call,” Abbie finishes with a light shrug, all the while thinking about how she swore off tequila forever the very next day. Yes, it led her to her future husband, but she would like to actually have _memories_ with him. It's bad enough having one approximately eight-hour blank in her life, and she knows it doesn't frustrate her nearly as much as it does Ichabod, who has an eidetic memory.

Except when tequila is involved.

“I saw her safely home, and asked for a kiss goodnight. Thankfully, she granted it,” Ichabod adds. Abbie squeezes his hand rather hard. “I called her the next day. Well, in truth it was later that _same_ day.”

“We met for brunch on Sunday,” Abbie adds.

“That sounds lovely,” Lori says. “I love brunch.”

“I love breakfast anytime,” Ezra adds.

“You just want an excuse to have bacon, Dad,” Abbie interjects.

“She says that like it's a bad thing,” Ezra says, looking at Ichabod, who merely shrugs.

  


xXx

  


_“So what does one do with a history degree?” Abbie asks some time later, her bare foot swinging from her perch on the wide sill of the bay window in Ichabod's kitchen. She takes a bite of her toast, allowing her eyes to linger on his body, now clad in a pair of dark gray boxer briefs._

_“Many people become teachers, but I am the head curator of the Westchester County Historical Museum,” he answers, putting a butter knife in the sink before picking up his own toast and taking a bite._

_She gives him a puzzled look. “Isn't that museum rather… Revolutionary War-heavy?” He nods, and she adds, “You're British.”_

_“My doctoral thesis was called The Role of British Spies in George Washington's Army,” he says. “It was very… pro-America, discussing how these spies were instrumental in aiding the Colonies in the war.”_

_“I bet the guys at Oxford loved it,” she laughs._

_“They hated it,” he replies, laughing with her. “But, despite that fact, they acknowledged my research was sound and could find no fault with it other than its 'overwhelmingly anti-British sentiment.' That's a direct quote.” He chuckles and takes a sip of his tea._

_“Did you print it on paper that looked like the American flag?” she asks, her eyes twinkling with mischief._

_She looks adorable and sexy siting there, brown skin glowing in the bright winter sunlight. “No, I used the back of a copy of the Declaration of Independence,” he answers in a dry deadpan that makes her burst out laughing. He smiles watching her there, haloed in sunlight filtered through the frost on the window, his eyes dropping to her leg and following it higher and higher to the hem of the t-shirt. His mouth goes dry when it occurs to him that she is wearing nothing beneath it._

_Abbie sees the look Ichabod is giving her, and her laughter fades away. He is staring at her with what can only be described as affectionate lust, his blue eyes dark and penetrating. She can almost feel them on her body like a caress. She lifts her mug and sips her tea, trying to tear her eyes from his but doesn't seem to be able to, holding his gaze over the top of her mug._

_He deliberately sets his mug down on the counter, leaves his second piece of toast untouched, and strides across to her._

_She shifts so she is facing him, and he moves close enough that she has to part her knees, the warmth of his body a sharp contrast to the coldness seeping in from the window behind her._

_Without thinking, she reaches up and brushes toast crumbs from his mustache. He catches her hand and kisses her fingertips. “You are, without question, the most enchanting woman I have had the good fortune to meet,” he murmurs between the soft kisses he is dropping on her hand. “I don't even care that I don't remember meeting you or… our activities last night…”_

_“Well,_ I _would kind of like to remember our activities last night,” she says, her voice hushed and breathy._

_He inclines his head. “Fair enough,” he allows, half-smiling as he brushes his lips against hers. “But I propose we…” he murmurs against her lips, then trails them down to her neck, “create some new memories together.”_

_“Oh…” she moans, sliding her fingers into his hair. “I am never drinking tequila again.”_

_His arms wrap around her and slide her from the window. She hangs onto his shoulders and wraps her legs around his waist. “Is that a yes?” he rumbles._

_“Yes,” she breathes, then kisses him deeply as he walks back to the bedroom, gripping her ass in his hands._

  


xXx

  


“You'll have to remind me of all the fake details we gave my parents so I can keep our, um, revised story straight in my head,” Abbie says in the car on the way home from her parents' house.

“Of course, Treasure,” Ichabod replies. “More people will be asking, so I believe that is a wise move.”

“Shit,” she curses, pulling out her phone. “Jenny,” she explains, looking at him. Jenny knows the truth. Abbie begins texting furiously.

“She has never betrayed your trust thus far,” Ichabod says. “But I do agree that it is best for her and young Joe to know what we are telling people about our courtship.”

“Courtship,” Abbie snorts. “That's good.”

“I beg your pardon, my love, but did I not romance you beyond your wildest dreams?” he asks. “Well, _after_ we shagged ourselves silly one winter Saturday,” he amends.

She reaches over and takes his hand, kissing it. “Yes, you did. After,” she agrees. When she sucks the end of his finger into his mouth he sharply looks over at her, raising his eyebrow.

“Mmm, how did I get so lucky?” he rumbles, gratefully pulling into the driveway.

“Tequila,” she answers.


	18. Eden

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Come over here and make me.” and “You heard me. Take. It. Off.” (promt from hermitelephant)

“Take off your shirt.” Abbie says it simply enough, but there is nothing simple about her request.

At least not in Crane's mind. “Miss Mills, I don't think that's strictly necessary,” he responds, shifting his shoulders in discomfort.

“I want to see,” she presses, stepping closer.

“I can look myself,” he protests, pulling the neckline of his shirt out a bit and looking down at his chest.

“I bet you can see really well that way,” she comments, her voice dripping with sarcasm. “Now, you heard me. Take. It. Off,” she repeats, striding towards him.

“I'll use the bathroom mirror,” he tries, but he knows it is fruitless as she is already tugging his shirt free of his waistband. He deflates.

“Honestly, Crane, what's the big deal?” she asks, sounding braver than she actually feels. She also hopes he doesn't notice her hands are shaking a little. “You said your scar has been bothering you, so we need to make sure nothing strange is going on with it. I mean, it _is_ kind of a supernatural scar.” As he drops his hands, shirt dangling from one, her heart speeds up and her body temperature rises. “Come on, Harry Potter…” she jokingly says, trying to cover the fact that her body apparently appreciates his.

“Surely Master Corbin—”

“If you wanna call and wake him up just so he can haul his ass all the way from the cabin to look at your scar, be my guest. _I_ know what happens when Jenny gets unexpectedly woken in the middle of the night, but _maybe_ she'll go easy on you,” Abbie interrupts, her hands on her hips.

Crane's eyes widen a bit. “Proceed,” he relents.

She steps closer. His scar is very nearly at eye level for her, so it is quite easy for her to get a good, close look at it. The raised, puckered flesh stands out against his skin, pale and stark amid his dark chest hair. It is an ugly scar from an ancient weapon, yet, because it is what brought him to her, she finds it strangely beautiful.

“It doesn't look bad. I haven't seen it much, but it looks the same as I remember. There's no redness, nothing strange. And it's not… moving, or anything,” she says, raising her right hand. She gently touches it, running her fingers along the length of it. “Feels… normal, I guess,” she says, willing her voice to be steady but not completely succeeding. He is warm and vital and just so _alive_. She can see his chest rise and fall with each breath, his pulse throbbing in his neck. _All I would have to do is lean forward and press my lips to that pulse…_

Crane's sharp intake of breath brings her back to earth. Abbie watches his shirt drop to the floor, then looks up and sees his eyes are closed, his expression tense.

“Am I hurting you?” she asks, her palm now flat on his bare skin, feeling the rapid beat of his heart beneath it.

His eyes open and he fixes her in a gaze that can only be described as _hungry._ “No,” he answers. “Quite the opposite.”

Before she can respond, he swoops down and kisses her. Hard. She squeaks in surprise.

Abbie pulls away _just_ before she loses herself and climbs him like a tree. She backs away, out of reach, breathing heavily. Shocked.

And more turned on than she has ever been. From one kiss.

“What was that?” she asks.

“Something long overdue,” he replies, levelly meeting her gaze until she looks away. He knew it would very likely be a bit of a struggle to get her to open up and admit she wants him as much as he does her. He knows she does; he can read her like she is his favorite book. And as soon as she touched his bare skin he decided he would be _damned_ if he was going to suppress his feelings tonight. The dam has been cracked and the water is beginning to flow through. He takes a step towards her, and she retreats a step.

“Wait,” she says, closing her eyes. She was expecting him to apologize, back off, perhaps even flee to his room. She was not prepared for Confident Predatory Crane, and it's turning her _way_ on.

He watches her, her chest heaving, her dark complexion glowing and slightly rosy, her lower lip caught by her upper teeth. “Take off your shirt,” he quietly orders.

Her eyes fly open. “What?” she asks, her voice low. She heard him perfectly well; she simply cannot believe he said it.

He knows this, so he calmly replies, “We are partners, are we not? Equals in all things? You do what I do, as you once said. And as I seem to be bare from the waist up, it is only fair that you should be clad in the same manner.”

She snorts a surprised laugh, unable to suppress it. “Interesting logic,” she weakly replies.

Crane takes another step forward, causing Abbie to take another step back. She finds herself backed against the wall. “I'm waiting, Abbie,” he rumbles.

His voice is a seduction all on its own, and the almost embarrassing amount of wetness in her panties makes her curse inwardly. _All right, yes, I want his skinny ass. Every bit of him._ Still, she's not giving up without a fight. She's having too much fun now. “Come over here and make me,” she challenges, lifting her chin just a fraction as she draws herself up to her full height, such as it is.

“With pleasure,” he answers, advancing on her with a wolfish grin.

She ducks under his arm and darts away, laughing with exhilaration when he curses and advances on her again.

“We're going to have to go to the gym sometime,” she says, evading him yet again. “Give you a little hand-to-hand instruction. I'd love to put you on your ass.”

“Promises, promises,” he says, reaching out with his exceptionally long arm and catching the back of her shirt. Now she curses as he tugs her towards him.

“You're lucky I like you or you would be unconscious right now,” she breathes just before he catches her lips with his.

He locks his arms around her, holding her securely but tightly in case she decides to slip away again.

But then her arms come up around his neck as she clings to him, trying to pull herself closer, higher. His hands slide down over her back, one briefly grasping her rear to distract her while the other pulls her shirt up.

She moans when he squeezes her backside, then yelps when she feels her shirt being pulled off. Her raised arms only help his cause, and her shirt is on the floor with his before she can even shout, “Crane!”

But he is already kissing down her neck, making his way to her breasts, his hands creeping up to the clasp of her bra.

He unhooks it much faster than she would have ever expected. “How…?” she asks, tugging his face back up to hers to kiss him. She isn't sure if kissing techniques were different in the 18th century or if it's just _him_ , but there is something about them… she can't get enough.

“I may have taken note of a few things while doing laundry,” he confesses, trailing his fingers up her arms to the straps on her shoulders. He slowly draws them down until the garment falls away on its own and Abbie lets it drop to the floor, kicking it aside. “Magnificent,” he assesses, gently cupping them in both hands.

“We…” she starts, stops and starts again. “We should go upstairs,” she whispers, his thumbs rubbing soft, slow circles around her nipples.

“Indeed,” he agrees, surprising Abbie yet again.

She takes his hand and tugs him upstairs. “You're not going to ask me if I'm sure? Not going to protest that this isn't 'proper' or propose marriage or anything like that?” she asks over her shoulder.

“No,” he answers, allowing her to pull the blankets back on her bed before he descends on her again. He kisses her soundly, then says, “All I am going to say is I love you… and I _think_ you love me, too. And that is the only thing that matters.”

Now she pulls him down over her, tumbling them both to the bed. His hand drags down the center of her chest, long fingers trailing over her skin till they reach the button at her waist. He deftly pops it open, then pulls the zipper down.

After peeling her snug-fitting jeans from her legs, they make quick work of what's left of their clothes, leaving them in a heap beside the bed.

“Wait,” Abbie says, pulling his face up from where he was busy placing sucking kisses on her neck.

“Of course,” Crane immediately answers. He is about to move off of her, but she holds him there.

“I didn't say 'leave', Crane,” she tells him, chuckling a little at how impossibly sweet he is. She cups his face in her hands, softly kisses his lips and says, “You're right. I do love you.” She kisses him again. “I wanted to tell you while I was still somewhat capable of speech.”

His eyebrows rise, surprised to learn that she is as affected by him as he is by her. “I completely understand,” he replies. “We have hardly begun and already I can say I have never felt like this with anyone before.”

“Yeah,” she agrees, releasing his face. As he kisses his way to her breasts, his words fully register. “So you've been with more than just Katrina then?”

“Of course,” he murmurs. “Contrary to what you – and others – may think, I am not a prude,” he lifts his head to add. He returns to her breast, sucking her nipple into his mouth as his hand slips between her thighs. “Not by a long shot,” he mutters, then lightly bites her nipple.

“Oh, my God…” she moans, arching under his ministrations. He seems to know exactly where and how to touch her, exactly what to do to wind her up into a quivering mass of need.

He slides two of his long fingers into her, groaning at how warm and wet she is for him. He slowly pumps them in and out a few times, finding what makes her squirm and cry out his name.

“You are so responsive to my touch,” he murmurs against her neck. “I love every sound that comes out of this mouth,” he adds, kissing her parted lips to swallow her moans. “And your lips, dear God! I could—”

“You could stop talking and kiss them,” she says, pulling his face back to hers, effectively distracting him enough to flip him on his back and straddle him.

His eyes fly open and somehow manage to grow darker and fuller with desire. “Heaven help me,” he whispers.

“You're not going to get any help there,” she says, sliding herself on his cock a few times before moving back to take him in her hands. “Nice,” she comments, stroking his large, thick shaft while he watches, apparently rendered helpless by her touch.

“Abbie,” he croaks, pleading. When she doesn't stop torturing him, he summons his will and flips them so she is on her back, beneath him again. He immediately thrusts forward, entering her swiftly and smoothly.

“Ah!” she cries out, but manages to lift her hips to meet him.

Her shout makes him stop. “Did I hurt you?”

“No,” Abbie answers, wrapping her strong legs around his slender hips and pulling him back in. “Mmm, not at all.”

“Seductress,” Crane growls, bending down to seal his lips to hers as he thrusts.

He is much more aggressive than she would have guessed, his hips snapping against her with enough force to make her headboard knock against the wall. She is coming unglued quickly, her short fingernails digging into his shoulders. He moves his lips to her neck and she burrows one hand into his hair while panted half-words fall from her mouth.

“My Abbie,” he murmurs against her skin. “My own.”

“Oh… yes… yes, Ichabod…” she answers, then clutches his head and exuberantly shouts out her release.

He follows right after her, his whole body a coiled spring as he surges into her. His face is buried in her neck, his beard both rough and soft against her skin. He groans, long and low, the sound similar to the one he makes when he bites into a particularly scrumptious sweet treat, yet this time it sounds a thousand times more sinful.

It makes a smug smile cross Abbie's face, and she pets his hair. “My man,” she says.

He rolls, pulling her with him. “Always,” he answers, gently hooking his finger under her chin and lifting her face to kiss.

She heaves a contented sigh, tucked against his side, her head on his shoulder. After a minute, she speaks. “So… has your scar _really_ been troubling you?” she asks, her fingers tracing the long mark on his chest.

He stiffens, obviously affronted by her accusation. “Has… of course it… I can't believe you would insinu—”

“Okay, okay, settle down!” she laughs, moving her hand up to stroke his cheek. “I'm sorry. But you have to know that guys try all kinds of things to get a woman in bed.”

“Of course I do. But I would never employ such an elaborate _ruse_ to lure you into my den of iniquity,” he says.

“Is that what this is?” she asks, laughing.

“Oh, undoubtedly,” he answers, a wicked smile crossing his face. “I was simply no longer able to resist the temptations you daily set before me,” he adds, his hand sliding down her side to grasp a handful of her backside.

“Hey, I'm just doing my – oh! – thing, you know. Living my life, going about my…” Abbie's attempts at flippantly dismissing his remarks are thwarted by Crane's efforts to begin round two, his hands and lips becoming rather busy once again.

“That's precisely what I mean,” he says, lifting his head from her stomach and gazing up at her. “Your mere existence is temptation.” He kisses her bellybutton. “You are Eve, and I am but a hapless Adam, feasting on whatever fruit you choose to give me.”


	19. The Bet

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wanna bet? (prompt from otps-are-my-jam)

Abbie walks into the Archives, her planned words dying on her lips when she sees Crane pacing and mumbling to himself, clearly very agitated.

She had intended to tease him, because the last thing she said when she left him – five hours ago – was “Don't stay up all night again.” He's been struggling with a particularly perplexing puzzle for days now, but he won't be any good to anyone if he neglects his basic needs.

When the clock struck twelve and he hadn't come home, she packed a cooler with food and beer and headed out.

“Crane,” she softly says, stepping in and setting the cooler on the table. He immediately stops and looks at her, his expression haggard.

“I have come to a standstill,” he says, his shoulders slumping. “I have consulted every documented code of both Da Vinci and Franklin, and still am unable to decrypt that _bloody_ scroll!” he continues, his voice rising to a shout at the end. He throws the pen he was clutching in his hand across the large room.

“Hey,” Abbie says, walking over to him. “You need a break.” She takes his arm and leads him to a chair. He doesn't resist, but she can tell that a break is the farthest thing from his mind.

“I must keep trying,” he says, allowing her to push him into the chair. “It's too important.”

She stands over him. “Without food or rest, you're not going to make any headway,” she says. She opens the cooler, pulls out a sandwich, and shoves it in his hand. Then she glares at him until he takes a bite.

“Thank you,” he says, his mouth full. He swallows, then takes a swig of the beer she opened and set on the table beside him. “I'm just so… _frustrated._ I do not recall ever being so confounded by a text before.” He takes another, very large bite of his sandwich.

“That's why you need to step away from it. Sometimes walking away and distracting yourself with something else allows your brain to relax enough to find the solution,” she says, taking a swig of her beer.

“I appreciate the sentiment, but I highly doubt that I will be able to concentrate on anything else,” he says, looking over at the scroll, unrolled on the desk a short distance away.

Abbie gently grabs his chin and turns his face towards her. “Wanna bet?” she asks.

He raises an eyebrow. She raises one back at him. “What are the terms?” he asks, intrigued only because he is certain he will be victorious.

“Whoever wins…” she pauses, thinking a moment, “gets to pick how we spend our next night off. And the loser cannot complain.”

He smirks, already ticking off a mental list of activities in which he'd love to partake but knows she may not be entirely amenable. “Shall we seal this accord?” he asks, holding out his hand.

She takes it and shakes it. Then she waits.

Crane eats his sandwich. Abbie can see the wheels turning in his head. She can tell he's still thinking about the scroll. She mentally counts down. _Three… two… one…_

“This document must be of great import for it to be so deeply encrypted.” The words burst forth like a Jack-in-the-box. He pauses to take another bite, then continues. “That, coupled with the difficulty we incurred simply retrieving it, proves that whatever it contains is likely more valuable to us than any other piece of information we've found to date.” He pops the last of the sandwich in his mouth, then brushes his hands together before taking another drink.

“Mmm-hmm,” she nods, leaning her hip against the table. _Soon._

He looks up at her. “I am sorry, Lieutenant, but I simply cannot think of anything else. My mind is a buzzing cacophony of cryptograms and codes, and for you to expect me to – Abbie! What are you—mmm…”

The surprise of his partner plunking herself in his lap is nothing compared to the shock of her lips on his and her tongue invading his mouth.

Captain Ichabod Crane was a soldier. He was a spy. He is also a man who suddenly found himself dropped into the 21st century. He has learned to recover rather quickly from most surprises. And while nothing could have prepared him for this, despite it being one of his deepest, darkest desires, he manages to recover rather quickly from this latest bombshell.

He pulls her closer, encouraging her to turn towards him more as he takes possession of the kiss. He growls low in the back of his throat as one hand moves up to cup the back of her head and the other slides down to her hip, his long fingers digging into the soft-firm flesh of her rear. He leans into her, channeling his pent-up frustration (of two varieties) into passion, pouring all of himself into her.

Abbie's mind is reeling, but she can barely put together a coherent thought. She's been about 99.5% certain Crane wanted her for a while now, but he never seemed to make a move. Her little “attack” seems to have backfired just a bit, because she now feels very much like the prey instead of the predator.

Time to do something about that.

She pulls her lips away and he gives chase, obviously not ready to stop now that he's started.

“Oh, Abbie,” he rumbles.

She makes the mistake of looking into his eyes and she crumbles, surrendering to his ardor again.

For a few minutes. When his hand goes exploring, closing over her breast, she remembers who is supposed to have the upper hand here. Even though it feels _really_ good and he _really_ knows how to make her body sing.

She backs off again, and he thinks he's overstepped, lifting his hand and stammering apologies.

She gives him a sly smile, returns his hand where it was, and leans forward, forcing him to sit back in the chair before kissing him again. Then she slips her hand down between them and palms him through his trousers.

“Abbie!” he exclaims. She's managed to shock him yet _again,_ and he is beginning to feel dizzy. She starts kissing his neck and he closes his eyes, his head dropping back. _Perhaps the dizziness is from the all the blood rushing to where her hand is,_ he vaguely thinks, groaning as she rubs him through the cloth until he is fully erect and throbbing with need for her.

Then, she disappears from his lap and his eyes snap open, hoping he hasn't just woken from an (another) erotic dream brought on by extreme exhaustion and sexual frustration.

But she is standing before him, sucking her full lips into her mouth as though she is tasting him on them. Then she drops to her knees in front of him and slides her hands up his thighs.

“Lieutenant, what are you…?” Crane asks, watching with wide eyes as her fingers begin unbuttoning his trousers, opening them fully. He automatically lifts his hips to allow her to slide them down just enough to withdraw his cock.

“Didn't they do this back in the day?” Abbie returns, wrapping both hands around his generous length.

“Y-yes…” he rasps, his breathing shallow. He cannot tear his eyes away from her as he watches, hoping she's going to do what he wants her to.

“Or this?” She leans forward and slides her succulent lips over his shaft, taking him in as deep as she can. “I thought I read that this sort of thing was against the law.” She licks his length before plunging him back into her mouth.

“It… it was…” he answers, his voice ragged. “But it does… no-OT mean that it… dear God… did not hap… pen…”

Abbie would laugh if her mouth wasn't full of him, if she wasn't so thoroughly enjoying making him come apart. She continues, licking and sucking, even lightly biting here and there, until he is gripping the arms of the chair so hard the wood is creaking.

“Abbie… I…”

She hums and squeezes his thigh with her hand, hoping he understands that she has no intention of stopping. He groans again and she looks up to see his head leaned back, jaw slack, eyes closed. She watches his Adam's apple bob in his throat once, then his whole body tenses as he comes. She's ready for it, swallowing again and again until he slumps in the chair, spent.

Abbie places one more kiss on the tip, then sits back on her heels. Crane stares down at her, his expression filled with awe.

“I had no idea,” he says, reaching down to caress her cheek.

She smiles. “I'm able to play things a little closer to the vest than you,” she says, taking his offered hand and allowing him to pull her back onto his lap. She carefully sits, mindful of the fact that he hasn't bothered closing his trousers. She pecks his lips and adds, “But I've been throwing signals for weeks now. You're pretty oblivious.”

He chuckles and slides one hand under the hem of her shirt, his long fingers stroking her soft skin. “I have been told that in the past,” he admits, leaning down to kiss her neck. “My dearest love, I cannot begin tell you how often I have dreamed of this. Or how fervently.”

“If it's anything near to how often I've fantasized about it, I might have a pretty good idea,” she replies, indulging herself and plunging her hand into his tousled curls the way she's wanted to for as long as she can remember.

He looks at her. “I am almost certain I have wanted you for much longer than you have me.”

“This isn't a competition, Ichabod,” she answers, kissing him. “Mmm, speaking of competition, though… pretty sure I just won our bet.”

He nods. “Indeed. But you cheated.”

“I did not.”

“You employed devious measures; using your feminine wiles – which are quite irresistible – to distract me from my task. These lush curves,” he pauses, running his hand over her side down to her hip, “paired with these lips,” he kisses them, “are a double thr—” He abruptly stops, eyes widening.

“Crane?” she asks, furrowing her brows.

“Double! It's double coded!” he exclaims, throwing his arms around her in a tight embrace before exuberantly kissing her. “The original parchment came from Leonardo Da Vinci. Coded. Then Franklin got his devious little hands on it and transferred it to the scroll – the original had gotten far too fragile, you see – and employed a _second_ code to the first. One of his own. All I have to do is apply Franklin's code first, _then_ Da Vinci's.” He kisses her again. “Thank you, my most darling treasure. You were, as always, completely correct.”

“You're welcome,” she answers, grinning at his giddiness. She always loves seeing him like this, and tonight is no exception. She begins to move from his lap to allow him to return to his work, but he tightens his hold on her.

“Just where do you think you are going?” he asks, raising an eyebrow at her.

“Didn't you want to get started on decoding that?” she asks.

“It has existed for centuries; it can wait a little longer,” he answers, his voice dropping lower as he nuzzles her neck. “I haven't finished with you yet.”


	20. Under the Bed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one was inspired by something, but I'm not going to say what. But if anyone can guess, I'll be very impressed (and no, it's not inspired by something that actually happened to me).

“Jenny assured me it would be in here,” Abbie says as she and Crane creep around an upstairs bedroom in a remote corner of the giant Victorian mansion that is currently hosting a society party. They secured invitations via some of Jenny's shady connections, and slipped away from the festivities in search of an ancient amulet reported to have powerful wards against demons.

“Did she specifically say that it is being kept in a dank bedroom whose furnishings are not appropriate to the time period?” Crane sneers. “This dresser is clearly mid-century modern; this home is reputed to have been restored to its original condi—”

“Dude, you have _got_ to stop watching HGTV,” Abbie says, stopping him before he really takes off. Then she hears noises on the other side of the door. “Shh… someone's out there,” she whispers.

He freezes, fingers flexing, hovering over the top of a jewelry box.

When the door begins rattling, they realize the “someone” is unlocking it.

Crane dashes for a closet, only to find it locked. He desperately looks at Abbie, eyes wide.

“Under the bed!” she mouths, pointing. They dive beneath it, sliding on the hardwood floor, disappearing just as the door opens and a young couple come tumbling in, giggling and whispering and shushing each other.

_Oh, dear,_ Crane thinks, immediately realizing what is happening. And here they are, spooned together on the floor, wedged beneath a bed that is very likely about to get a workout.

Abbie can feel every bit of him pressed against her, his warmth seeping into her back. It makes parts of her front warm as well.

They've been dancing this dance for months now, and this forced proximity combined with the champagne they drank earlier and the sounds of two people getting down to the business of getting down is making them both feel rather fuzzy yet over-aware of one another.

This isn't the first time they have been in this position, though this is the first time it's been under a bed. The last time was on the couch, when they fell asleep in front of the television and woke up at 3 a.m. spooned under a blanket. Neither of them knew exactly how they had gotten there, and neither had been terribly inclined to move, so they simply went back to sleep.

That broken barrier led to the drunken make-out session filed under Things We Do Not Discuss, along with the dreams Abbie has about Ichabod and the ones Ichabod has about Abbie.

And then there was the chess game where Crane, mulling over his next play, absent-mindedly placed his hand over Abbie’s on the tabletop. His fingers tracing soft, random patters on the back of her hand was somehow the most innocent and sinful thing at once.

“Oh, yes…” a feminine voice gasps.

“Yeah, Baby, you like that?” a male voice replies just before a pair of Jimmy Choos clatter to the floor.

Abbie presses her lips together, trying not to laugh. She feels Crane bury his face in her hair, clearly doing the same.

His breath on her neck is strangely distracting.

She shifts slightly, the floor hard under her hip, but just succeeds in pressing her backside into her partner's groin. He grunts very softly, and she only hears it because his lips are right beside her ear.

Crane shifts, too, his right arm snaking around her waist. The already short skirt of Abbie's cocktail dress has ridden higher, but she can't move to remedy the situation.

His fingers twitch and he inhales, breathing in her intoxicating scent. Her proximity is everything he wants, yet it is sheer torture. The moaning and panting of the couple directly above them is only encouraging the thoughts running through his brain, and before he fully realizes what he's doing, his lips find their way to her neck.

Her eyes close and she bites her lower lip. Her hips undulate, rolling against his groin again as he continues kissing her neck.

Clothing hits the floor in front of them. A shirt, a dress, a pair of panties, trousers. The mattress starts groaning.

Crane's fingers clutch Abbie's midsection, and when his hand slides higher to close over a breast, she rolls onto her back and turns her face. His lips are right there, waiting for her, and she suddenly is unable to remember any of her reasons for denying this attraction between them.

His lips are soft and familiar and he is as good a kisser as she remembered. She was drunk enough that night to give in to temptation, but not so drunk that all the details are missing from her memory. She tilts her chin up and slides her tongue languidly against his before sucking on his lower lip.

His hand moves from her breast and slides down over her stomach. When it reaches her thigh, his long fingers begin crawling up the skirt of her dress, bunching it up until he feels skin. His hand feels cool on her warm skin, and her legs instinctively part just enough for him to slip his hand between them.

“Oh, Daddy, yes!”

Abbie snorts a quiet laugh, turning her face into Crane’s neck to muffle any sound she might make. She can feel his body shaking with silent laughter even as his fingers creep their way into her panties.

She gasps and bites his neck as his fingers find their target, the long, dextrous digits seeming to know exactly what she likes.

“Abbie,” he breathes her name into her ear, lightly biting the outer shell of it before peppering kisses everywhere he can reach. It’s a limited range, but he is thorough about it before catching her lips again.

Abbie writhes under his attention, listening to how their quiet sounds blend into the louder moans and groans above them. She has to be quiet. They can’t risk discovery. She feels a sort of nervous exhilaration that somehow makes this little tryst just that much hotter.

Almost unable to think, she gropes beside her until she finds Crane’s hard length tenting his trousers. She closes her hand over it, rubbing him through the material.

The soft groan in her ear nearly unravels her, and she responds by squeezing him, realizing her fingers would very likely not be able to wrap completely around his girth.

“Rented trousers.” It is the barest whisper, breathed in her ear. Crane’s other hand is pinned beneath them and he needed some way to convey that he does not wish to soil the trousers of the rented tuxedo that he grudgingly donned for the evening.

Abbie understands and moves her hand, raising it to cover her breast, squeezing and caressing it. He continues rubbing circles against her sensitive button with his thumb while two long fingers slide in and out of her, driving her almost mad with the sensations he is causing within her.

She turns her head and forcefully presses her lips against his as she comes, and he returns her kiss, matching her ardor as he absorbs any sound she might make. His fingers slow, gently easing away to let her catch her breath and gather herself. He removes his hand, sucking her wetness off of them before returning it to rest on her stomach.

Neither of them noticed the slight clink of metal hitting hardwood, but when Abbie opens her eyes, she sees Crane looking just past her, his eyes fixed on something.

She turns her head and sees the necklace. She looks back at him.  _Is that it?_ she asks with her eyes. He nods, and she begins snaking her hand out, trying to reach it.

“Oh! Oh yes! Yes!”

The outburst catches them by surprise and Abbie snatches her hand back as Crane stiffens beside her, holding his breath.

When they hear a very undignified sound from the male participant above them, they huddle into each other again to stifle their giggles.

The bed shifts above them and they see a large foot, still wearing a black sock, drop down.

“Where are you going?”

“Don’t we need to get back to the party?”

“No. Stay,” the woman says, her voice slightly whiney. “This is my room and Daddy lets me do whatever I want now that I’m 21.”

The foot disappears. “I thought  _I_ was your daddy,” he says, his voice low. The woman giggles.

Abbie makes a face, but when she sees Crane’s glorious expression that somehow combines disgust and disdain, she has to stop herself from laughing again.

The bed shifts again, and they hear the couple above them settle into the bed.

The waiting seems interminable, but when the silence is split by two sets of snores, Abbie reaches out and snags the amulet. Then she slides out from under the bed and straightens her dress.

Crane worms his way out, aided by Abbie pulling on his hands and sliding his lanky body over the floor until he is free. She puts the amulet into the inside breast pocket of his jacket, then gives his chest a pat.

They creep back out the door and into the hallway. It is silent; the party is clearly over. Thankfully, they are not intercepted by anyone and manage to slip out, going right out the front door.

“Lieutenant,” Crane’s voice has that _I wish to discuss something_ tone.

Abbie is surprised he waited until they were in the car before saying anything. She wonders if was about to burst. “Ichabod,” she says, turning towards him.

“I feel as though I should apologize for my… caddish behav—”

Her fingers gently press against his lips. “Did you miss the part where I was a very willing participant?” she asks.

He kisses her fingertips, then holds her small hand between his much larger ones, tenderly caressing it. “No, I did not,” he admits. “Still, I—”

This time she stops his words with her lips. “Come on,  _Daddy,_ let’s go home and finish what we started,” she says, pecks his lips once more, then starts the car.

“Never call me that again.”


	21. Do I Wanna Know?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by "Do I Wanna Know?" by Arctic Monkeys

_Have you got colour in your cheeks?_   
_Do you ever get the fear that you can't_   
_Shift the type that sticks around_   
_Like something in your teeth?_   
_Are there some aces up your sleeve?_   
_Have you no idea that you're in deep?_   
_I dreamt about you nearly ev'ry night this week._   
_How many secrets can you keep?_   
_'Cause there's this tune I found_   
_That makes me think of you somehow_   
_And I play it on repeat until I fall asleep,_   
_Spilling drinks on my settee._

He finds himself watching her, his attention bordering on obsessive.  He takes in every detail, every nuance, filing away every micro-expression, every gasp and chuckle, every unconscious habit in his memory so that he may recall the minutiae of her at will.

For fear of losing her.

He dreams about her almost every night, dreams varying from innocent scenes of a normal life and home to the most decadent, steamy, lust-fueled vignettes that make him wake up covered in sweat and hard as steel.

He never thought himself capable of such depraved thoughts, even in his subconscious, but somehow the deep, all-encompassing purity of his love for her makes even his most perverse fantasy seem sublime.

_Do I wanna know..._   
_...If this feeling flows both ways?_   
_Sad to see you go._   
_Was sort of hoping that you'd stay._   
_Baby, we both know..._   
_That the nights were mainly made for saying things_   
_That you can't say tomorrow day._

He knows he would die for her.  He knows he would die without her.

The only thing Ichabod Crane doesn’t know is if Abigail Mills feels the same way.

So he keeps his feelings hidden as best he can.

He is not good at it; not like her.  Not like his Lieutenant who can school her features into a mask, keeping the world from learning her secrets.  Keeping even him from fully gazing into her depths.

She almost seems to take a certain kind of joy in pushing away her personal life in favor of the Mission.

But sometimes, he thinks he hears her at night, when she thinks he is sleeping.  He hears her breaking down behind her closed bedroom door, and he longs to rush to her and comfort her in his embrace.

Then morning comes and he pretends he was, in fact, asleep.

_Crawlin' back to you._   
_Ever thought of calling when you've had a few?_   
_'Cause I always do._   
_Maybe I'm too busy being yours_   
_To fall for somebody new._   
_Now I've thought it through._   
_Crawlin' back to you._

She encourages his relationship with Zoe Corinth.  Pushes him at her.

He wonders how much of her willingness for him to date the young brunette is a way of pushing him away from herself.

He tries, but only half-heartedly.  Less than half, because how can he give his heart to Miss Corinth when Miss Mills holds the entirety of it in her tiny hands.

No.  His heart is not his to give.  It belongs to her.

It was too easy to let his friendship with Miss Corinth fall by the wayside; too easy to say goodbye.

Too easy to crawl back home to Abbie.  Where he belongs.

_So have you got the guts?_   
_Been wond'ring if your heart's still open,_   
_And if so I wanna know what time it shuts._   
_Simmer down and pucker up._   
_I'm sorry to interrupt,_   
_It's just, I'm constantly on the cusp of trying to kiss you,_   
_I don't know if you feel the same as I do._   
_But we could be together if you wanted to._

He wants to ask her.  He wants to see if he can chip away at her walls until they crumble.

She’s so brave.  She thinks nothing of running towards the demons they face, guns drawn, determination etched in her beautiful face.

She’s so brave about everything except matters concerning her heart.

If she knew how many times, how close he’s come to sealing his lips over hers and kissing her until neither of them can think straight, she would surely flee into the night.

If she only knew the real reason he incessantly talks is to occupy his lips.

If she only knew the real reason his fingers twitch at his sides…

_Do I wanna know..._   
_...If this feeling flows both ways?_   
_Sad to see you go._   
_Was sort of hoping that you'd stay._   
_Baby, we both know..._   
_That the nights were mainly made for saying things_   
_That you can't say tomorrow day._

“I love you.”  He whispers the words to her when she sleeps, coward that he is.  She doesn’t sleep much since her return, but when she does, she sleeps like the dead.

He gently lifts her from the couch where she drifted away, cradling her small body in his arms and carrying her up to her bed.

He tucks her in and murmurs the words in the safety of darkness.

He holds his breath after, both fearing and hoping she has heard him, but she merely sighs in her sleep and turns onto her side, looking like an angel.

_Crawlin' back to you._   
_Ever thought of calling when you've had a few?_   
_'Cause I always do._   
_Maybe I'm too busy being yours_   
_To fall for somebody new._   
_Now I've thought it through._   
_Crawlin' back to you._   
_Do I wanna know..._   
_...If this feeling flows both ways?_   
_Sad to see you go..._   
_Was sort of hoping that you'd stay._   
_Baby, we both know..._   
_That the nights were mainly made for saying things_   
_That you can't say tomorrow day._   
_Do I wanna know..._   
_Too busy being yours to fall._   
_Sad to see you go._

Joe counsels him to tell her.  Tossing beer down their throats, he assures Crane that she won’t shut him out if she doesn’t feel the same.

Joe even nudges the phone over.

He stares at it, mournfully, disdainfully, knowing that phoning her just won’t do.  Not when he is half inebriated; not when he lives under the same roof as her.

No.  Such things must be done in person.  Never mind the fact that alcohol always has the effect of loosening his already-too-loquacious tongue.  Never mind the face that he has balefully stared at his phone, wondering how she would receive what he has learned is called a “drunk dial” from him.  If he would spill all his secrets over the phone, in the middle of the night, under the influence of one too many bottles of beer or glasses of rum.

No.  He insists he is a gentleman.

Joe postulates that being a gentleman is what got him into this predicament in the first place, and he simply glowers.

_Ever thought of calling, darling?_   
_Do I wanna know..._   
_Do you want me crawling back to you?_

She is sitting up in bed when he returns home, surprised to see his early arrival.  She looks like a goddess in repose, surrounded by fluffy pillows and thick comforters, her head crowned with satin.

He hovers, his tongue that was so eager to speak ten minutes ago now tied, essentially glued to the roof of his mouth.

She invites him in, and he gingerly enters, perching on the corner of her bed, watching her.  She is beauty personified in a compact package, and his fingers twitch on the coverlet as he ponders the words that will not come.

As perceptive as she is beautiful, she asks what is troubling him.  He can still say nothing.  He looks up from his study of his knees and into her large brown eyes.  He sees worlds in them, worlds in which he would happily lose himself, drowning in those mahogany pools.

Then, almost as if she has read his thoughts, her lips part with a small, soft gasp that takes his breath away as well.

He whispers her name, and she catches her lower lip in her teeth, just slightly, just enough to make his gaze shift there.  She releases it and he is transfixed by the plumpness of it, the softness.

His tongue automatically flicks out, wetting his own lips in anticipation.

She notices.  She whispers his name.

“Ichabod…”

His given name, which she so rarely uses.

Is it an invitation?  He reaches up with a hand he hopes she does not notice is trembling, and hesitantly, softly touches her cheek.

She turns her face into his touch, and he can no longer contain himself.  He leans forward and catches those succulent lips with his.  He feels her hand on his cheek, her fingertips running through his beard, and he releases an involuntary groan as he is overcome with the joy of her.

“Abbie,” he finally gasps her name, emboldened enough by the fact that she returned his kiss to speak again.  “Does this mean…?”

“Yes,” she answers.  “God help me, yes, it does.”  She grabs his shirt and pulls him down over her, not needing any further discussion.


	22. The Tank Top

Abbie bought both tank tops at the same time, from the same table at Wal-mart.  She was looking for a cheap, comfortable tank to use as a pajama top.

They were on sale for $3.  She bought two.

One was olive green with a camouflage pattern that she had intended to give to Jenny, but somehow never did.  The other was leopard. Neither were particularly attractive or even very well-made; the leopard print looked somewhat faded and poorly done and the camo barely had enough color variation to be noticeable.  But it didn't matter since she only planned on sleeping in them.

Interestingly, the leopard print tank seemed to be a bit looser than the camo one, and Abbie would often wake up with one breast very nearly hanging out of the scooped neckline.

She also noticed the way Crane's eyes would unconsciously drop and focus on an area about a foot lower than her eyes the few times he encountered her wearing it.  Of course, lately that has been true nearly any time she wears anything somewhat revealing.

He would catch himself, clear his throat and quickly look away, hoping she hadn't noticed but knowing she had.  She never teased or chided him for it though.

She never did because Abbie found that she liked his eyes on her.  How his pupils dilate nearly every time he looks at her.  How he gazes at her as though she is most beautiful woman in the entire world.  How he looks at her beneath heavy-lidded eyes and promises her that he will never again leave her side.

And more than the looks are the touches, especially lately.  The way he stroked her arm and held her hands after they both returned from the catacombs sent hot chills through her, and she was both disappointed and relieved when he chickened out of whatever he really was going to say to make an inane joke about chess.  They way he always stands a little too close to her, almost guarding her, when they are out together.  The way he seems to intentionally brush her fingers with his when they pass an item between themselves.

He routinely pulls her feet into his lap when they sit on the couch together for movie night, often absently massaging them.  Once or twice she's fallen asleep on his shoulder and woken to find herself tucked into her bed.

Abbie is almost positive Crane wants her.

And she is completely positive that she wants him.

But she knows him well enough to know that he will want to make the first move.

However, that doesn't mean she can't nudge him a little.  Especially because he seems the type to silently pine away rather than acting on his desires.

So Abbie decides to make things a little interesting when they are at home.  See how far she can nudge him until he does something.

Which is where the leopard tank top comes into play.

She's pretty sure Crane is a boob man.  The flush in his cheeks when she wears shorts tells her he appreciates her legs, and she's caught him checking out her ass once or twice, but those pale in comparison to his secret (or so he thinks) preoccupation with her chest.

Katrina didn't have much of a butt, and I never saw her legs, Abbie reasons, looking at her reflection in the mirror, tugging the tank top down a little.  She had a decent rack, though.  She pulls her shoulders back.  Not as good as mine, of course, but passable.

Katrina is also very likely the reason he is hesitant to make a move.  He's become gunshy.  Not that I should cast stones, standing here behind my high stone walls.

Abbie sighs and looks at the two pairs of shorts sitting on her bed.  She chooses the longer of the two, which are quite short in their own right, but considering the other pair are basically booty shorts, they are definitely the more demure.  I want to entice him, not kill him.  Let my walls down just enough to encourage him to come through. I'm not dragging him, bound and gagged, through the gates.

She knows Crane will be home soon, and heads down to the living room, book in hand.  She reclines on the couch, artfully arranging herself to look like she feel asleep reading.  Book open face down on her stomach, head dropped to one side.  She looks down at her top, and tugs it down, striving for carelessly unkempt.  Shifted without her knowledge.  A very large portion of her right breast is exposed. Another centimeter and it could officially be classified as a Wardrobe Malfunction.

She hears his key in the lock and flops her head to the side, willing her body to be still and heavy, her breathing slow.

“Mi—” He immediately goes silent when he sees she is asleep.  She can hear him quietly padding across the living room to where she is lying, and can imagine the expression on his face as he stares down at her, indulging himself.  “Oh…”  A soft, breathy grunt escapes his lips, then she hears him walking away.  She peeks an eye open to see him set his books down, run one of those giant sexy hands through his hair, and take a deep breath.  She closes her eyes again just in time.

Crane gently lifts the book, marking the page and setting it on the table. When he gently lifts Abbie into his arms, she tries her hardest to not respond to his touch, not nuzzle his chest as he effortlessly carries her to her room.

When she lands on her bed, she sighs and shifts, hoping to appear slinky and sultry.  His soft gasp tells her she is successful.  Then she is lifted again and he places her on the other side of the bed, where he's pulled the covers back.

She is surprised to feel his lips on her forehead in a soft kiss before he leaves.  When she hears the click of the door closing, her right hand slides down, under the waistband of her shorts and between her legs.

xXx

Abbie paces herself.  Somewhat.  She can't hit him every day or it'll be suspicious, but she needs to keep the slow seduction frequent enough to keep his attention.  Keep him alert.

She hears Crane creeping around downstairs, no doubt in search of a late night snack.  She looks down at her attire: camo tank, not the leopard one.  But she's wearing the booty shorts this time, and a slow, sly smile crosses her face.

Let's see if a little ass can shake him up.

She picks up her water glass, which is half-full, and empties it into the sink.  Then she listens another moment to make sure he's still about. When she hears the refrigerator door open, she quickly heads downstairs, her feet swift and silent on the staircase.

He is peering into the fridge when she casually saunters in.  “Oh, hey Crane,” she says.

“Lieutenant!” he exclaims, whirling around.  “I was just…” his words fail him as he takes her in, his eyes quickly traveling the length of her body.  They pause at her bust, waist (Oh dear, has my shirt ridden up a bit and I have some tummy showing?  However did that happen?), and thighs before he clears his throat and looks away.  “I was feeling a little peckish and was trying to locate the rest of the Thai food we had yesterday.”

She walks to the dishwasher, opens it, and puts her glass in.  “I had it for lunch,” she answers, glancing over her shoulder as she talks.  Also to make sure he is watching her.  He is, and she opens a cabinet and reaches up for a clean glass.  Then she approaches him, still parked in front of the fridge. “It was goooood,” she adds, leaning towards him and drawing the word out through pursed lips.

“Oh. Perhaps just an… apple or something then,” he says, clearly disappointed.  “Maybe some cinnamon toast.”

“Sorry,” she apologizes, touching his arm.  “You shouldn't eat spicy food this late at night anyway.  Not good for you.”  She holds her glass under the ice dispenser in the refrigerator door, hoping the temperamental appliance will dispense its cubes with its usual gusto.

“Perhaps it is for the best then,” he replies, pulling two slices of bread from the bag and popping them in the toaster.  He turns around just in time to see Abbie bend over and retrieve the fallen ice cubes from the floor.  “Good heavens,” he whispers, his eyes unable to focus on anything apart from the glorious backside pointed directly at him.

“What was that?” she asks, straightening up and tossing the cubes into the sink.  She moves her glass to the water dispenser, watching him out of the corner of her eye.  She heard him quite clearly.

“What was what?” he asks in return, looking a bit perplexed.

“I thought I heard something.  Must have been my imagination,” she says.  Then she opens the fridge and brings out the tub of spreadable butter.  “You might need this.”

“Thank you,” he replies, taking the container.  “Oh,” he exclaims, and turns to retrieve a knife and the cinnamon sugar.

Abbie moves at the same time, and – completely unintentionally – steps right into Crane’s path. They almost collide, and a little water sloshes out of her glass.

He reflexively grabs her to prevent her from falling, his large hands strong and warm on her arms.  She looks up at him and sees him giving her what is now a very familiar look: eyes half-lidded, pupils wide, lips parted, cheeks flushed.

They stare at each other for a second longer than would be considered necessary.  Then he blinks and seems to snap back into himself.  The proper, Captain Crane version of himself.  “Oh,” he says, moves his hands, and steps back.

“I spilled,” Abbie responds, setting her glass down and reaching for some paper towels.

“Allow me,” he says, taking the paper towel from her hand.  Then his toast pops.

She takes the towel back and gives him a gentle push.  “You don't want your toast to get cold,” she says, then bends down to wipe up the small puddle.

When he curses sharply, she looks up and sees him blowing on his fingers. As Abbie exits the kitchen, swaying her hips just so, she knows he burned himself because he was watching her instead of paying attention to his task.

She smiles as she climbs the stairs.

xXx

In the end, Crane breaks on his own.  Abbie had her third seduction planned, but her plan fell through when she fell asleep.

She wasn't planning to fall asleep.  She wasn't even planning to feign sleep.  Her plan was to wait for him in his room and directly confront him.  Definitely not throwing myself at him, she had to lie to herself.

But he wound up being out later than she had expected (apparently those re-enactors can really get their Colonial Era groove on), and she fell asleep on his bed.  Wearing the leopard tank top and black booty shorts.

Soft lips on her forehead are the first things of which she becomes aware. Then her cheek.  She can feel his beard on her skin, its roughness in contrast with the tenderness of his lips.  When he kisses her neck, she awakens fully, snapping into full wakefulness.  Her fingers delve into his hair, holding his head as his kisses become more ardent.

“This torment ends now,” he growls into the crook of her neck.  “You have been deliberately toying with me for weeks.”

“You knew?” she asks, her voice much breathier than she was expecting. Her hands slide down to his shoulders and when her palms slide over bare skin instead of rough cotton, her eyes open wide.  She tilts her head to look at him.  He is kneeling beside the bed, his shirt off, barefoot, but he still has his trousers on.

“Of course I knew, temptress,” he rumbles, lightly rubbing his nose up the side of her neck as he lifts his head.  “I merely let you think I was oblivious because… forgive me, but I wished to see how far you would go.”  His eyes search her face for a moment, then he moves, catching her lips in a brief but passionate kiss.  “I cannot help but wonder what it was you had in store for me tonight had you not fallen asleep.”

“I think you have a pretty good idea,” she says, caressing his face. She tilts her chin towards him and he meets her, now taking his time kissing her.  They revel in each other for several decadent minutes before her finally lifts his head again.

“No more games, Lieutenant,” he says, the seriousness of his voice betrayed by the adoration in his eyes.

“No more games, Captain,” she agrees, then pulls him towards her.

He willingly comes, climbing onto the bed and over her.  He looms, staring down at her like she is a precious jewel.  “I never notice how petite you are anymore,” he says, noting how he easily surrounds her form with his.  He drops his lips and kisses her again, finding it quite difficult to stop now that he has started.  “‘And though she be but little, she is fierce,’” he quotes, murmuring with his lips against her skin.

“Shakespeare, Crane?  Now?” she asks, her hands busying themselves learning the lines of him. Her fingers trace the scar on his chest, and he jumps a little at the sensation of it.

“Shakespeare is always appropriate,” he answers, sucking on her neck.  He lifts his head.  “‘Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day? Though art more lovel—’”

His words abruptly stop when she pulls him down, her lips crashing into his in a long, deep kiss that leaves them both thoughtless and breathless.

“Shut up,” she breathes, stroking his face with her fingers as she smiles up at him.

“As you command, my heart,” he says.  He kisses her again, his hand sliding down to her side. “This ruddy tank top,” he mutters between kisses as he tugs at it.  “It does nothing to contain your… assets.”

“I thought I told you to shut up,” she says, laughing.  Man cannot even close his mouth for ten minutes.

He chuckles, sliding his hand under her shirt.  “You love it when I—”

“Rant?” she asks, smiling up at him.  Damn it, he’s right, I do.  “Okay, yeah, I’ve kind of gotten to enjoy it.  But I more than kind of want to get around to something else before dawn, too.”  She hooks her leg around his.

He pauses, searching her face.  “You truly wish to…?” he asks, and she nods.  “Fully?” he confirms.

“Not doing this halfway,” she says, hoping he isn’t going to decide to have a moment now, of all times.

“Have we… the proper protection?” he asks, surprising her not only with his question but by flexing his hips into her, allowing her to feel the hard length of him against her.

She gasps, then regroups.  “I’m protected, and we’re both clean,” she confirms, now skimming her hands up and down his chest as he hovers over her.  She expects him to ask her what she means by “protected”, but he simply nods and moves his hand, rucking her tank top up higher.

She pushes him and sits up.  Between them, they manage to remove the offending garment and he takes a moment to stare.

“Glorious,” he whispers, then guides her back down onto her back beneath him. Starting at her lips, he begins kissing a trail down her jaw, over her neck, skimming her collarbones, until he finally reaches her breasts.

Abbie hums pleasurably, enjoying his ministrations.  Any questions she may have had about his ability to please a modern woman quickly vanish, and she smiles, running her fingers through his tousled hair.

Crane lifts his head.  “May I say one more thing?” he asks, his long fingers now toying with the edge of her shorts.

“Make it good,” she answers.

“I love you, Abbie.  I have for longer than you likely realize, and I will for longer than I can say,” he says, his voice soft and velvety.

“Wow,” she replies.  “That was good.”  She leans up and kisses him, then whispers, “I love you, too, Ichabod.”

“You do?” he asks, sounding genuinely surprised.

“Yes,” she confirms.  “Why do you think I’ve been trying to seduce you for weeks?”

“Oh. Um.  I…”

She laughs, then reaches down between them, pressing her palm against his shaft through his trousers.  When he groans, she slides her hand up and brings her other down to begin unfastening his buttons.  She manages them much more quickly then he would have expected, and he quickly moves away to pull them down, along with his boxer briefs, the one piece of modern clothing he consented to wear (“I don’t know what kind of drawers you’ve got on under there, but I can 100% guarantee you they are not going to last,” Abbie had quite matter-of-factly said).

When he crawls back over her, he is happy to see that she did not remove her shorts.  “Did you leave these for me?” he asks.  She bites her lip and nods, watching his face as he curls his long fingers into the waistband of the small, tight shorts and begins to slowly peel them down.  She lifts her hips to assist, but otherwise gives him no other help.

He ponders her naked form for several long moments, and finally says, “I have never before seen anything so beautiful.”  His voice is hushed, almost reverent.

If anyone else had ever said such a thing to her, she would have rolled her eyes, figuring he was full of shit.  But not Crane.  She can see it in his eyes, in his expression that he is completely in earnest and speaking from his heart.

His lips are on hers before she can come up with any sort of reply, covering her small body with his.

Abbie moans into his mouth, and Crane answers with a groan of his own.  Her hand finds his length again and he gasps her name.

Her body undulates beneath his, asking to be touched.  He immediately complies, his ling fingers trailing over her skin, down, down, tracing her curves until he slides them around her thigh and inward. She angles her hips to meet his questing hand, and when his fingers slip into her folds, she gasps and bites his lower lip.

“So wet, Miss Mills.”  His voice is a lightly teasing rumble, and she responds by tightening her grasp on his length as she strokes him. He grunts and his fingers lose rhythm for a moment.

She has to admit his cockiness is kind of sexy at times.  And when he is gazing down at her with a look that would set her panties ablaze (if she was wearing any), she will readily admit that this is one of those times.

“Now, Ichabod,” she says, willing her voice to not sound as needy as she feels.  She tells herself she won’t beg, but she knows damn well she will if he decides to torment her for too long.  She knows damn well that if anyone has the power to make her beg, it’s him.

Thankfully, he removes his hand and simply says, “As you command, my heart.” When she moves him into place, he slowly drops his hips, taking his time burying his impressive length inside of her.

“Mmmm,” she hums in pleasure, her hands sliding down his back to grab his backside.  She makes another pleased sound when she finds he actually has something to grab there.  His antiquated Colonial trousers don’t do much to flatter his assets from the rear view, not to mention the long coat he wears most of the time.

When he is fully seated, he stills, then leans down and kisses her, softly, tenderly.  Then he slowly pulls back and thrusts forward again, whispering, “My treasure, my own,” against her lips.

“Oh, God,” Abbie moans, nearly overcome.  She clings to his shoulders as he moves over her, hoping to ground herself on the solid mass of him, because she feels like she might float away.

She thought she had experienced lovemaking before.  With Luke, with Danny.  Perhaps one or two others.

She hasn’t.  She really, really hasn’t.

“Damn…” she exhales, grabbing his face and pulling it back down to hers, needing to kiss him.

“Oh, Lieutenant… Abbie…” Crane gasps, moving one hand to cover a breast, his thumb sliding over her stiff nipple, drawing another moan from her.

“Do that again,” Abbie whispers, bringing her knees higher, allowing him to go deeper, and she cries out when he hits just the right spot. He continues caressing her breast and moving in just the right way until she is exclaiming, “Oh!” or “Yes!” with every thrust.

She comes with another shout a moment later, her body bucking under his. She opens her eyes to see him watching her with rapt adoration, and he leans down and snatches a kiss just before his whole body tenses like a great coiled spring.  He growls her name into her neck, where he has buried his face, his back taut and bent for a few seconds before he collapses onto her with a surprising amount of grace.

“That was extraordinary,” Crane sighs after a minute.  He is still lying on top of her, but she doesn’t mind.  He kisses her neck and gently moves to one side of her.

“That was unreal,” Abbie amends.  “I swear I was seeing stars.”

“Stars?” he asks.  “Is that all?  I was seeing entire galaxies.”

She falls into an uncharacteristic fit of giggles, turning to curl into his embrace.

“This is where you belong, my Abigail,” he says, holding her.  “In my arms.”

“I think you may be right,” she agrees.  She pauses a moment, then asks, “Why did we wait so long to do this?”

“Stubbornness on both of our parts, I believe,” he answers, pulling the blankets up over them.  “Foolish, pig-headed stubbornness.”

She shifts in his arms, then kisses him.  “Yeah, you’re probably right.  God, we’re dumb.”

He laughs, hugging her closer.  “I do love you with all that I am, from the deepest part of my soul,” he says.  “I thought I knew love before, but…”

She kisses him again.  “I love you, too,” she answers.  “I wonder if this is part of the Witness thing.”

“We shall have to research it.  I, too, am curious to see if this new… dimension of our relationship is a…”

“Perk?” she supplies.

“Yes. A ‘perk’ of our bond as Witnesses.  Something beautiful for us to have amidst all the ugliness with which we must deal,” he says.

She shrugs.  “Possible.  But you know what?  I don’t really care if it is fate or choice.”

“Don’t you?  We are both people from whom many of our choices were taken away, and—”

She stops his words with another kiss, effectively silencing him for a while.  “Don’t overthink it.  Just accept it for the gift it is, regardless of the reason.”

He nods and lays his head back on his pillow.

They lie together for a time, communicating by means of touches and kisses, not caring that it is now closer to being morning than night, simply reveling in the newness of being together this way.

After a time, he speaks again, his fingers trailing up and down her body.

“Please tell me that Miss Jenny was not jesting when she told me that there are no longer laws governing… adult nocturnal activities,” Crane blurts, staring down at her with a look that tells her he is definitely not asking for hypothetical reasons.

“She wasn’t joking,” Abbie confirms, pushing herself higher. “Anything goes these days, as long as both parties consent,” she continues in a whisper, her lips brushing his ear.  She licks the shell of it before adding, “And I consent,” because she knows he’s going to ask. It doesn’t even occur to her to wonder what it is he has in mind.

She also makes a mental note to ask Jenny why she was giving him this information.

“Good,” he growls.  “Me, too,” he says, dispatching his usual formal demeanor in favor of brevity as he suddenly disappears.

“Ichabod!” she exclaims as he plunges his face between her thighs.

_I hope no demons come calling any time tomorrow._


	23. Knight in Shining Armor

Lieutenant Abbie Mills sips her latte in her favorite spot in the coffeeshop, which is an unobtrusive corner where she can both blend into the background and watch nearly everything going on. She enjoys people-watching; uses it to keep her observation skills sharp. Once or twice she’s even been able to head off trouble before it started, but mostly she just likes to watch the bustle of the coffeeshop.

A man catches her eye, someone she hasn’t seen before.  _Wonder if he’s new in town?_ He is tall, thin, and rather handsome in an underfed hipster sort of way. Long hair, beard, long wool coat, thick book tucked under his arm. He finds a table and sits, facing her, and his bright blue eyes glance in her direction for a split second, probably not even seeing her.

He sets his book and drink down, then unwinds a long green scarf from around his neck. He removes his coat, tucks the scarf into the sleeve, then hangs it on the back on the chair before sitting. He opens his book and gives it his undivided attention.

He clearly does not wish to be disturbed.

So Abbie cringes when a young woman approaches him five minutes later. Petite, dark hair, pale skin, sweater set. She looks like just the type of woman Abbie would peg as this guy’s “type,” but he doesn’t seem pleased to see her.

_Come on, chickie, he’s giving off all the obvious “leave me alone” signs. Book, head down, closed posture._

She can see him giving terse, one-word answers, very deliberately not closing his book, even keeping his place marked with a long, elegant finger.

When the young woman sits down, Abbie sees his face twitch and harden, and she knows he is trying to maintain his composure. He is obviously polite to a fault and will not turn his intruder away.

Abbie doesn’t even realize she is rising and walking towards them until she has nearly reached the table.

“Hey Baby, sorry I’m late. Got stuck in my driveway on the way out. You know how Mary next door likes to talk… hard to get away once she gets going,” she brightly says, standing behind the young woman. She raises her eyebrows slightly and gives the man a hard look that clearly says _Play along if you want your solitude back_ , but turns it back into a smile as the woman turns around and looks up at her.

“Oh!” A true gentleman, he all but leaps to his feet and reaches his hand out to Abbie. “Quite all right, Darling. I wasn’t sure what you wanted this morning or I would have ordered for you,” he smoothly says, his velvety baritone voice bearing a gorgeously posh English accent. He lifts her hand to his lips and places a lingering kiss there.

_His lips are really soft._ “That’s all right; I don’t have time now anyway,” she answers with a smile, then seems to notice they are not alone. “Who is your friend?” she asks.

“Um—”

“I-I was just leaving,” the other woman mutters, clearly unhappy with this new development. “Uh, sorry. I didn’t… I mean he didn’t mention—” she awkwardly stammers, flushing beet red, then turns and flees mid-sentence.

“Thank you,” he says, exhaling. “Some people are simply not able to read the signs of a person who does not wish to be disturbed,” he says, indicating the book on his table. Then he seems to realize he is still holding her hand, and releases it with a soft exclamation.

“You’re welcome,” Abbie says. “I can never resist rescuing damsels in distress.”

He chuckles, then says, “So you’ve done this before then.”

“Not specifically this, no,” she replies, with a sly smile. “But I’ll leave you to your solitude.”

“Thank you once again, my valiant knight,” he declares, then drops into a low, sweeping bow.

She laughs and shakes her head. “Earbuds,” she recommends, unable to stop smiling at him. “Get yourself some earbuds.”

“I do not have an iPod or any other sort of listening device,” he says.

“Well, no one needs to know that, do they?” she returns, angling her head at him. “See you around,” she adds, then gives him a wave and walks out.

As he watches her walk away, he’s not sure if it’s the sight of her perfectly formed posterior, her quick wit, her beautiful face, or the sound of her laugher that makes him hope he will indeed see her around.

Perhaps it is all four things combined into the enticingly petite package of his valiant Lady Knight.

xXx

“Good morning, I’m Lieutenant Abbie Mills with the Sleepy Hollow Police Department.”

Ichabod Crane sharply looks up from his computer screen.  _I know that voice. That is my Lady Knight._ He is on his feet and through the his open office door like a shot out of a cannon. He hasn’t been able to get her out of his mind since she saved him from the unwanted attention of one Zoe Corinth, now nearly a month ago.

“Dr. Crane will be able to—oh! Dr. Crane, you startled me,” the woman at the desk says, puzzling at him as he skids to a halt just before Abbie turns her attention to him.

“Dr. Crane?” Abbie asks, her eyebrows rising. “You reported a robbery?”

“Ichabod Crane,” he introduces himself, extending his large hand as he tries to hide his disappointment in the fact that she does not seem to recognize him. “I am the curator here. We’ve had a rather unsettling morning, I’m afraid,” he says.

“Lieutenant Abbie Mills. This is Sergeant Brown and Sergeant Flannery,” she indicates the two uniformed officers standing a short distance behind her.

“Gentlemen,” Crane gives the men a brief nod. “If you will follow me, please.”

Abbie nods and lets him lead the way towards an area that has been roped off.

“What was taken?” she asks, nodding to the sergeants. They go through and begin working the scene.

“A very valuable book. A bible that belonged to George Washington. We have it on loan from D.C.,” he answers, his long fingers twitching at his sides.

“Washington, hey?” she asks. “Must be super old.”

“Indeed,” he says, slightly perplexed by her casual demeanor.

“All right. My guys will be a bit here. In the meantime, you’ll need to fill out a report,” she says.

“Of course,” he replies.

“You got an office we can use?” she asks.

“Yes…. It is… up near the entrance,” he answers.

Abbie says a few words to the sergeants, then walks back towards Crane. Once she is certain the two men are fully occupied, she quietly says, “All right. Lead the way… Baby.”

He stumbles over his feet, her words catching him off guard. She snorts a laugh and he regroups. “I was not certain you remembered me,  _Darling_ ,” he shoots back.

“Of course I did,” she replies. “You’re a pretty unforgettable guy.”

“Am I?” he asks, a bit dumbfounded as he sits. She takes a seat across from him, separated by his desk. He knows he certainly hadn’t been able to get her out of his mind, and is encouraged by the fact that she seems to find him so memorable as well.

She regards him across the desk for a moment, unsure if his question was rhetorical or not. She decides to return to the safe territory of the business at hand and asks, “Was anything else stolen ?”

“No. Just the book,” he answers.

“Can you describe it?”

“Well, for starters, it’s a bible,” he says. She raises an eyebrow at him, and he continues. “Black leather cover, extremely old. There is an inscription on the inside cover from Mrs. Washington. It says, ‘To my dearest George on the occasion of our wedding. 1 Corinthians 13:13. Love always, your Martha.’”

“‘And now these three remain: faith, hope and love. But the greatest of these is love.’” Abbie quotes as she takes notes.

“Actually, in the King James version the verse reads, ‘And now abideth faith, hope, charity, these three; but the greatest of these is charity.’” Crane says. He tilts his head slightly. “Hmm. ‘Love’ is much more moving than ‘Charity’. This is a rare case in which the newer translations are better. Well, except perhaps the _very_ modern translations, which remove most of the poetry from the words…” He looks over and sees her staring at him. “What?”

She can’t help grinning. “Do you always go on like this?”

He pauses a second before replying, “If it is something about which I am passionate… yes.”

“Interesting,” she says, staring blankly for a moment, pondering the possibilities of his statement. She shakes her head briefly and returns to business. “Are there any other details about the book that might be helpful? Like specific worn spots or cracks in the leather? Was there any printing on the spine? Bent corners?”

“Most of the gold leaf in the writing on the spine has worn off,” he answers. “There is a three millimeter segment of it left in the bottom of the ‘L’ and a speck in the upper left corner of the ‘E’. The lower corner of the front cover is worn and it curls up just slightly.”

Abbie jots these notes down, then looks up at him. “You have a very good memory.”

“I possess an eidetic memory, Lieutenant,” he says, folding his hands together on the desk in front of him.

_Those hands could_ do _things to me,_ she finds herself thinking. “Impressive, but I bet that can get tiring sometimes,” she says.

He blinks in surprise. No one has ever seen that side of his unique talent before. “Indeed, there are some things I wish I could forget,” he says. “But others… there are times when it is beneficial to be able to call up a certain image or string of words at will.”

“Like now,” she says.

“Yes,” he agrees. “Or when I want to remember the exact shape of a beautiful woman’s eyes or the curve of her full lips.”

He is looking so intently at her, she just swallows and tries not to squirm in her seat. He hasn’t explicitly said he’s talking about her, but she knows he is.

“Or how the sun made her soft brown skin glow,” he continues, leaning forward a bit. “Or the exact taste and smell of her skin from a single kiss to the back of her hand.”

“Damn,” Abbie softly exclaims. He’s gotten her all hot under the collar with just a few words. _And if he can do that much to me with so little…_ She blinks a few times, trying to regroup.

“Lieutenant?” Crane asks, raising an eyebrow at her.

“I love how you say that,” she blurts. “Oh. Um, right.” She swallows hard, irritated with herself for letting him get her all flustered with his damn pretty words in his damn panty-dropping _accent_ and _voice._

A knock on the half-open office door interrupts them. “Lieutenant Mills? We’re all set,” Sergeant Brown says.

“Okay. I’ll be right there,” she answers. “Do you have a card or something so I can call you? I mean… for the case, of course,” she asks Crane, turning back towards him.

“Yes,” he replies, opening his desk drawer. He withdraws a card, quickly writes on the back, and comes around the desk to give it to her. “My mobile number is on the back. Please do not hesitate to call at any time,” he says. “For the case, of course,” he adds.

Abbie passes Crane one of her own cards, and he intentionally holds her hand when he takes it.

“I’ll be in touch,” she says, her voice breathier than it should be. “For the case.” His grasp is light and soft, but she finds herself unable to remove her hand from his.

“Yes. The case,” he echoes.

xXx

It takes the SHPD two weeks to track down and retrieve the stolen Bible. Two weeks in which Lieutenant Abbie Mills tirelessly worked, determined to find the ancient tome.

She told herself her determination was because it was a priceless, irreplaceable historical artifact and that solving the case would give her the edge she needs to get promoted to Captain.

It’s not at all because she wants to be able to find it for  _him._

Definitely not that.

Never mind the fact that she has thought of him every day since she left the museum and looked at his card so often that she has it memorized.

The book has been sitting on her desk for half an hour now, but she still hasn’t drummed up the courage to call Dr. Crane. It was already after hours by the time she finished the paperwork and put the perps behind bars, and now it’s nearly past the dinner hour.

Abbie is hungry. But she knows she should call him. She picks up her phone and glances at his tidy, angular handwriting on the back.  _Dial the number._ She pokes the numbers on the screen, looking at the card for reference even though she doesn’t need it.

“Hello?” He answers on the second ring, and his warm voice floats into her ear and seems to pool in the pit of her stomach.

“Dr. Crane? This is _Lieutenant_ Mills,” she says, pointedly pronouncing her title “Leftenant”.

“Ah, good evening Lieutenant,” he replies, his tone brightening considerably.

“I have your book. I mean, Washington’s bible,” she says. “We have the thieves locked up.”

“Oh, that is excellent news!” he exclaims. “I had complete faith in you.”

_Wow, he really did._ She’s never heard such a truly earnest tone before. “I’d like to meet you somewhere,” she says. “To, um, return the book.”

“For the case,” he says, and she can hear the smile in his voice. “I can meet you at the museum in ten minutes.”

“See you in ten,” she replies, already out of her chair.

She’s halfway to the door when she realizes she left Washington’s bible on her desk. She curses, runs back to get it.

Crane is standing outside the museum when Abbie pulls up. She parks and gets out of her Jeep, remembering to grab the book this time.

“Hello, Darling,” he greets, stepping towards her, trying not to smile too broadly. He opens the door to the museum and they step inside, out of the chill.

“Am I late, Baby?” she asks, also attempting to control her face with only marginal success.

“Not at all. I must confess I was here when you called,” he answers, gazing down at her upturned face. She looks tired, like she’s been doing nothing but work for the two weeks since he last saw her. Tired, but still beautiful.

“Here’s your book,” she says, holding up an evidence bag containing the book. “I, um, left it in the bag to protect it.”

“Thank you,” he answers, stroking her fingers with his when he takes it from her grasp. “That was thoughtful of you. Especially since the book is super old,” he adds.

Abbie snorts a laugh. “You’re not suited for American slang,” she assess.

“Indeed not,” he agrees. “I think I will just secure this in my office for the night,” he says. “Would you care to accompany me?”

“Of course,” she answers, and they walk the short distance to his office.

He closes the door.

“Dr. Cr—”

“Ichabod,” he corrects her, setting the book on his desk, then striding back over to her. “It is a deplorable name, but—.”

“Ichabod,” she repeats, looking up at him. _He is so close. And so tall._

“Abbie,” he replies, boldly reaching up to softly caress her cheek. “I have not been able to get you out of my mind since that day you rescued me in the coffeeshop,” he quietly says, his fingers lingering over her skin. “Luckily, it seems fate seems to have something in mind for us, since you appeared in my life to save me once again, my valiant Lady Knight, and for that, I am forever gratef—”

“Ichabod,” she says, and he falls into silence. “Shut up and kiss me already.”

Needing no further encouragement, he drops his head, catching her waiting lips with his. He tenderly kisses her, his lips soft and almost polite.

He begins to pull away, but Abbie grabs his lapels and holds him fast, keeping him there. He groans and gives in to desire, throwing his inhibitions out the window, wrapping a long arm around her waist. He pulls her against him as he crowds her against the closed office door, and she releases her grip on his coat and moves her hands up to wind around his neck, opening her lips beneath his as she does so. He enthusiastically follows suit, his tongue immediately finding hers, his hand moving from her cheek to cradle the back of her head.

“Oh,” Crane gasps, pulling away for just a second. Abbie takes this opportunity and jumps, pulling herself up while his arms automatically catch her. She wraps her legs around him and he presses her against the door again. “Much better,” he growls before delving into her lips once more.

“Ichabod,” she breathes, tilting her head back when he begins trailing kisses down her neck. “Oh God, man…”

When he flexes his hips into her, he realizes that he is in danger of going too far too fast. “Abbie… we should stop,” he murmurs against her skin.

“Huh?” she asks, her brain a clouded haze. No other man has been able to render her so completely stupid like Dr. Ichabod Crane has.

He gently untangles them, setting her on her feet. Then he kisses her forehead. “I do not wish to go too far,” he says. Then he quickly adds, “Not  _here_ , anyway.”

“Oh,” she replies, smiling. “Somewhere else then?”

“I was thinking—” He is interrupted by the surprisingly loud grumbling of his stomach.

“Hungry?” Abbie asks, laughing. She places her hand on his stomach, finding it flat and firm.

“It seems so,” Crane answers. “Would you care to accompany me to dinner, Darling?” he asks.

She lifts up on tiptoe and kisses him, nipping his lower lip. “I think we should get it to go, Baby.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I like to take tropes and twist them in (hopefully) unexpected ways.


	24. The Cottage

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Post season 3 AU fluff where everyone is alive and nothing hurts. Written for the 2017 Ichabbie Valentine weekend.

“Crane, where are we _going_?” Abbie asks for the third time. Her patience is beginning to wear a little thin, and the charm of the Scottish countryside is no longer compensating for the combination of jetlag and a smug-looking partner who thinks she _enjoys_ surprises.

“Just a little further, Lieutenant,” Crane replies, peering out his own window. “Ah. Turn left here, please,” he instructs the driver.

The car makes a smooth left turn onto an almost-hidden drive among some thick trees.

Abbie sits up a little straighter, her Cop Senses heightening as she takes in the surroundings. “Is this a private drive?” she asks.

“Yes,” Crane answers. He smiles across at her, but she doesn’t see him because the cottage has just come into view.

She gasps just loud enough for him to hear, and his smile widens. He knew she would love it. Her lips curve into a small smile as she takes it in. It is all charming stone and quaint vines, complete with moss growing on the roof. She finds herself looking for sheep, and is a little disappointed when she sees none.

Crane has been wanting to bring Abbie to the UK since his return from his solo jaunt that now feels like a lifetime ago. He wanted to show her _his_ world, even in its modern form, show her Oxford, his family’s estate (now no longer in his family), even his tomb where he discovered the stone tablets.

When he found out about the cottage that somehow still belonged to the Crane family – and therefore, him, as the only surviving member of said family – he wanted to bring her here even more.

When the third tribulation ended, Pandora and The Hidden One defeated, he carefully broached the subject of taking a journey.

He was shocked when she agreed, saying, “Yeah, I need to get the hell away from here for a while. Away to someplace _real_.”

“Here we are, sir,” the cab driver says, rolling to a stop. “She’s a bonny wee cottage, if ye don’t mind me sayin’,” he adds as they get out of the cab. It is lightly drizzling and cold; typical February weather.

“Thank you,” Crane replies, pays the driver, and picks up their bags. He reaches the door and sets them down to fish a key out of his pocket.

“Crane,” Abbie says, slightly wary. There are several questions all clamoring to be asked, but she can’t seem to form any of them at the moment.

He unlocks the door, opens it, then steps aside, arm extended, inviting her in.

“Crane.”

“Yes?”

“What is this place, and why do you have a key?”

“Your questions will be answered in due course, Miss Mills,” he answers, not answering anything. “Please.” He extends his long arm again.

“Okay,” she answers. She trusts him, but knows he’s up to something. He’s been more fidgety than usual since they landed, and his twitches have only increased as they drew closer to their destination. This place. _Whatever this place is._

She walks inside and is shocked to discover that while the inside is as modern as the exterior is rustic, it has still retained the bucolic charm one would expect from such a place.

The door clicks closed behind them and she hears the clunk of suitcases being set on a slate floor. “Do you like it?” The question is soft and tentative, and she turns around to face him, letting her smile answer his nervous question.

He looks so earnest and hopeful standing there, his hands clasped behind his back. “Crane, it’s… charming. Wonderful. I love it. Thank you.”

He exhales and says, “Oh, I’m so glad you approve. Come. Let me show you the rest.”

He takes her through a cozy living room with wood already laid in the fireplace and a chess board all set up and ready to go. The kitchen has modern appliances juxtaposed with distressed wood cabinetry, and the cupboards and fridge are stocked. There is a small sunroom in back that has a bookshelf filled with books.

“Crane,” she stops him with a hand on his arm before they move on. “How did you afford this place?” she asks, figuring it is some sort of rental or Airbnb thing.

“It is mine,” he finally confesses.

“ _What?_ ”

“It is the only remaining piece of the Crane family estate. An… oversight, if you will. I discovered it when I was here last year, and intended to sell it, but never got the time to do so. Instead, I decided to bring you here and make use of it, even if only once,” he explains.

“No, you can’t sell this place,” she immediately says, surprising herself. “It’s… it’s too adorable. Too… special. Crane, it’s the only thing you have left from your family.”

“I have a new family now,” he answers, his voice low. “You, Miss Jenny, Master Corbin… I have even grown fond of Agent Foster. I have come to realize that I do not need to cling so fiercely to the things of my past. That I must move forward, embrace this time as my own.”

“Gonna start wearing jeans then?” she asks with a smile, already knowing the answer.

“Good Lord, no!” he exclaims, chuckling. “I said, ‘I do not need to cling so fiercely,’ not ‘I should completely abandon.’ There is a difference.”

“I know, Crane,” she says, patting his chest. “I was teasing. I don’t think I could handle seeing you walking around in modern clothes all the time.” She angles her head as she looks up at him. “I like you this way.”

He places his hand over hers, holding it to his chest. “Good.”

She feels his fingers twitch even as they press hers. “What’s troubling you then?” she asks.

He hesitates, then moves their joined hands from his chest to hold hers in his at their sides. “Come,” he prompts, guiding her through a nearby door.

The master bedroom – the _only_ bedroom – is large, with a second fireplace (also bearing wood laid ready for a fire), a large wardrobe, and a huge four-poster bed. There is a vase of red roses on one of the bedside tables, and a bottle of champagne in a bucket of ice on the other. Abbie doesn’t notice these last details right away, walking as though drawn to the bathroom.

“Oh, wow,” she says, spying the large sunken tub. There is a separate shower, and the toilet is even in its own little room.

“This was an addition,” he says, appearing behind her. “This was originally part of the bedroom, but it was partitioned off to create a bathroom.”

“By whom?” she asks, turning around.

“There was an account set up for the care and maintenance of this cottage,” he explains, “as well as a caretaker. I put the updates in motion before I returned as the first step in my plan to sell.” He sighs. “Unfortunately, I am unable to use the funds for anything other than this cottage, or I would have liquidated the account and given what was in it to you.”

“What? You don’t need to—”

“Yes, I do. You have been feeding and housing me for too long and I intend to repay you for your kindness, Abbie. When we return to Sleepy Hollow, I shall be seeking out gainful employment so I can at least begin contributing to the upkeep of our household.”

Abbie feels curious tears pricking the backs of her eyes, but manages to keep them at bay. “Wow, Crane, that’s… more than anyone has ever done for me before.” She wants to insist he doesn’t need to repay her, but she knows that not only would it be fruitless, but also very likely wound his pride.

He reaches for her hand and gently guides her out of the bathroom into the bedroom. “It is the very least I can do for you. I would… I would give you the world, if I could,” he softly admits.

“Ichabod?” she asks, finally noticing the flowers and champagne. She looks up at him with questions in her eyes that she is afraid to ask.

He drops to a knee before her so she can look down towards him for a change, still holding her hand. When he speaks, he uncharacteristically avoids her eyes, speaking to her hand. “Abbie, I… when I lost you to The Hidden One’s tree, I nearly went mad trying to bring you back to me. And when I lost you to Pandora’s box, when she told me you were dead and gone, I died, too. Inside.” He bravely leans down and kisses her knuckles. “I love you more than even I, with all my loquaciousness and facility with languages, can express,” he says, pressing her small hand to his cheek and closes his eyes. “I brought you here to… to…” he pauses, then regroups, “because I thought it would be easier to lay my heart bare for you away from the distractions of home and ugliness of our fight.” He kisses her hand again and says, “I was wrong. It wasn’t any easier.” He ponders her hand in his, afraid to look up into her eyes for fear of what they might hold. When she says nothing, he takes a deep breath and says, “I fully understand if you do not feel the same or if your heart is now held by Director Reynolds. If either is the case, I will say no more about it and comfort myself with the knowledge that I still have your friendship, which is something I will always treasure no matter what.”

He finally musters up enough courage to look up at her and sees tears coursing down her cheeks, her free hand covering her mouth. He exhales, noting that she doesn’t look angry or upset. Her large brown eyes are shining and soft as she looks down at him.

Without a word, she moves her hand from her mouth to his cheek, her thumb stroking the skin above his beard. Then she leans down and kisses him.

Her lips are as soft and luxurious as they look, and Crane knows he could die a happy man right now, content with knowing the feel of her lips.

“Abbie,” he gasps when she backs away. “Does this mean—”

She nods, biting her lower lip, and he suddenly stands. Emboldened by her wordless confession, he pulls her into his arms, wipes the tears from her cheeks, and kisses her. When her arms move up and wind around his neck, he takes it as his cue to deepen the kiss, tightening his hold on her and sliding his tongue forward. She immediately meets it with her own, welcoming him in with a soft whimper as her fingers tangle in his hair.

“I…” she starts, sinking back down from tiptoe to gather her thoughts. “Crane… Ichabod… I’m overwhelmed,” she says.

“Forgive me, dearest, I did not intend—”

“No, it’s all right,” she interjects, not wanting him to misunderstand. She absently picks at the lapel of his coat and say, “It’s just really hard for me to… you know…”

“Yes, I know,” he replies, kissing her forehead. He would be worried if she had moved out of his embrace, but she hasn’t. In fact, she seems quite content where she is. “I did not expect you to return the sentiment, but the knowledge that you do indeed feel something more than friendship for me is… it is more than enough for me.”

She looks up at him. “That’s the thing though. I _do_ love you, Crane. I just… don’t think I really realized it before now. I had never allowed myself to consider…”

He tightens his arms, pulling her against him, too overjoyed to do anything else except bask in her closeness. “You do not know how happy you’ve made me, Lieutenant,” he whispers.

She chuckles, then turns her face and kisses the hollow of his throat, causing him to sharply inhale. “I think I have a pretty good idea, Captain.”

He loosens his hold on her, gazing down at his beautiful face. “Yes, I do believe you do. And that is one of the reasons why I love you so completely. For you know me as well – no, better – than I know myself.”

She nods, reaching up to stroke his beard again. “No one knows me like you do, Ichabod,” she say. “Good and bad, you _know_ and you still stay by my side.”

He turns his face and kisses her palm. “You are my best friend and my dearest love, and I intend to spend this week showing you how much you mean to me,” he says.

Abbie’s eyebrow raises, intrigued. “Is that so?” she asks, unsuccessfully trying not to smile.

Crane drops his head and gives her a kiss that is full of passion and promise, making her head swim. She doesn’t even feel her feet moving until they are suddenly off the floor and she finds herself sprawled on his chest atop the bed.

“Yes,” he finally answers, rolling them so she is under him. He kisses her again and adds, “It is most definitely so.”


	25. All Better

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the Ichabbie First Kiss event-thing.

“ _ **OW!!**_ ”

Crane sharply looks up. He’s never heard the Lieutenant yell so loudly before. “Lieutenant? Are you all right?” he calls.

Nothing.

He quickly marks his place in his book and hurries upstairs, “Miss Mills?” he calls, taking the steps two at a time. “Abbie?” he cautiously ventures, reaching the door of her room.

He finds her on her bed, on her side, clutching her knee to her chest, her face a grimace of pain.

“I walked into the bed,” she grinds out. “Walking at full speed.”

“Oh, dear!” he exclaims, knowing how fast his diminutive Lieutenant walks. Her bed frame is also solid wood and she has a Tempur-Pedic mattress that likely weighs as much as a small car. Crane covets this mattress almost as much as he does the woman who sleeps upon it.

He gingerly sits beside her on the bed and rests his hand on her shoulder. “Are you all right?”

She makes a noise somewhere between a laugh and a sob. “I felt it… all the way down to my ankle…” she brokenly says.

He looks down and it is then he notices the glassiness of her eyes. His eyebrows rise; he’s never seen her shed tears from physical pain before. “You should put some ice on it,” he recommends, the hand on her shoulder sliding down to rub her back. “Come.”

“Holy shit…” she exhales, sitting up. “Oh!” she exclaims as Crane scoops her into his arms. “You don’t need to carry me,” she says, but settles in against him nevertheless.

“It is no trouble at all,” he assures her, carefully descending the stairs. “Tell, me, Lieutenant, do you even weigh 100 pounds?”

She slaps his chest. “That’s none of your business!” she protests, but she is laughing.

His face lights up. “Ah, there now,” he declares, and Abbie realizes he was just trying to make her laugh. He gently places her on the couch, then kneels down and carefully pulls up the leg of her yoga pants to take a look. “No bruising,” he says, touching her knee ever so gently with two fingers.

She presses her lips together at the soft caress, then asks, “Is it swollen at all?”

“No. Not yet, anyway. And not at all, if we get some ice on it soon,” he says. He dashes away and returns with a reusable ice pack and a tea towel, which he places over her knee.

“Thank you,” she quietly says. She’s not entirely used to letting someone take care of her, but somehow, with Crane, it’s becoming less and less of a problem.

He brings her tablet and even offers to turn on the television, and then joins her on the couch, pulling her feet onto his lap while he reads.

“I should begin preparing dinner,” he says, breaking the silence after about a half an hour.

“What have you got planned?” she asks, looking up.

“Just a simple lasagna, I think,” he says. “Unless there is something else you are craving.”

“Pizza?” she suggests, biting her lower lip.

“From Nonna Rosa’s?” he asks, an intrigued eyebrow raising. She nods. “My phone is on the desk,” he declares, then reaches out for her ice pack. “This is no longer doing any good,” he says, removing the now only slightly cool pack. Then, he bends his head and drops a soft kiss on her knee. “All better,” he murmurs before dashing away to retrieve his phone and order dinner.

xXx

Two weeks later, Abbie’s knee is completely better, but Crane got himself a nasty bump on the noggin walking in an underground chamber clearly not meant for anyone taller than 5’10”.

The overhead support beam was nearly invisible in the dark, especially when Crane’s focus was solely on his partner, walking in front of him.

_CRACK!_

“Oomf…”

“Crane? You okay?” Abbie turns and asks, looking up to see him holding his head and staggering a bit. She rushes over and wraps her arm around his waist, hoping to steady him. “Stay with me,” she says. “We’re almost out… can you make it?”

“I… I think so,” he answers. “What on earth did I…?”

She points up with her flashlight. “Beam. Come on, we need to get you out of here,” she says, keeping her arm around him. If he has a concussion, she’s going to have to keep an eye on him for at least the next 24 hours.

“Can we… slow down?” he asks, his one hand still on his forehead.

“Yes, of course,” she answers, tightening her hold on him. “Here’s the stairs,” she says.

They begin their slow ascent, Crane releasing his hold on his head to grip the wall, still clinging to Abbie with his other hand.

“You’re very strong,” he comments once they reach the top.

“Yeah, but I’m not strong enough to carry your ass, so you better make it to the car,” she replies, tugging him towards her Jeep.

He makes it to the passenger seat, buckles himself in, and then passes out.

“Crane?” she asks, looking over at him. “Shit.” She picks up her phone and calls Joe, then starts the car.

When Crane opens his eyes again, he is lying on the couch at home, and the first thing he sees is Abbie’s concerned face staring down at him.

“Abbie?” he asks. “What… oh…” He tries lifting his head and immediately realizes that is a bad idea. When he puts his head back down, he realizes he is on a pillow on his partner’s lap.

“Do you remember hitting your head?” she asks, stroking his hair back away from his face again. His hair is silken under her fingers and she indulges herself a little longer than she probably should.

“I do now,” he answers. “How long was I out?”

“Not long,” Joe’s voice answers that question and Crane’s next, which was going to be about how she got him into the house. “I need to look at your eyes, man.”

“Do I need to sit up?”

“No.”

“Good.”

Joe takes out a small light and checks Crane’s eyes, moving the light this way and that, giving instructions as he does so. Finally, he says, “You’ve got a concussion. Not a bad one, but enough of one. Here.” He turns and takes some Tylenol and a glass of water, then helps him sit up enough to take the pills.

“Ugh,” Crane groans, laying his head back down. “Thank you,” he says.

Joe gives some instructions to Abbie, then lets himself out.

“You need to rest, but I’m going to have to wake you up periodically,” she tells Crane once they are alone again.

“Understood,” he replies. “If you need to get up…”

“I’m good for now,” she says. “But let me know if you need anything.” Her fingers absentmindedly pick through his hair again.

“Very well,” he sighs. “That feels good.”

“Hmm? Oh. I… hadn’t realized I was doing that,” she responds. His eyes close, and she looks down at him, noting how he looks so different with his expressive eyes closed. She lightly runs her fingertips over the bruise forming on his forehead. His skin is warm and surprisingly soft.

Without thinking, she bends down and places a soft kiss to his forehead. “All better,” she whispers.

When she lifts her head, she sees Crane’s lips curve into the barest smile. So she bends back down and kisses them, too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The first part is based on actual events at my house two days ago...


	26. Least Expected

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apparently I had one more in me for Ichabbie First Kiss...

It didn’t happen at all the way she expected.

Out of all the scenarios that popped into Abbie’s head, she never even considered the one that actually happened.

Not that she was fantasizing about it or anything.

No. Not at all.

Never crossed her mind. Didn’t give her something to keep her brain occupied while she was trapped for ten months.

Most definitely did not creep into her thoughts as she drifted off to sleep, a (welcome) distraction from the horrors they faced each day.

The horrors they faced together each day.

 _Together_.

That was the word. The word that stopped her from hurling herself into the beckoning light of Pandora’s box, the word that gave her the strength to kick the corner of the curséd chest so it sucked Pandora into the box instead.

Crane has been strangely quiet since then, as though he is struggling with some sort of inner turmoil. He denies it, claims he is merely “tired” or “pondering the manner of our next tribulation” when she asks about it.

It has been two weeks of quiet.

Too quiet.

Too much of Crane and his Thoughts.

So when he comes marching into the Archives one bright Saturday morning with a song on his lips, Abbie smiles, thinking he’s sorted out whatever personal demons he hasn’t been ready to share with her.

He enters the Archives with a bag from Donut Man and a cardboard tray bearing two cups, very deliberately sets them down, and stares hard at Abbie until she looks up from her screen.

“Hey, Crane,” she says, smiling. He begins walking purposefully towards her. “You seem like you’re in a good moo—mm!”

His lips cover hers, swallowing her words, while his large hands frame her lovely face.

She senses he is about to pull away and grabs the lapels of his coat, holding him in place. His answering groan as he deepens the kiss sends a jolt of heat straight through to her core, and she releases him before she either pulls him down to his knees in front of her or wraps her legs around him and climbs him like the tree he is.

“Wow…” she exhales, leaning back and looking up at him.

“Indeed,” he agrees, looking more smug than she’s ever seen him.

Which is saying a lot.

“So that was it, huh? The bug that’s been in your butt for the past two weeks?” she asks. He nods, holding out his hand. She places hers in it, stands, and says, “What took you so long?”


	27. Liar

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just found this fic. I don't really remember writing it (according to the file date, it was written over 2 years ago), and I never posted it anywhere. Looks like it takes place in late season two.

Ichabod Crane is a liar.

He told Abbie he wasn't going back to yoga class, haughtily turning his nose up at the prospect, despite the fact that she earned some useful knowledge from the endeavor.

 _That_ was true.

The lie was that he didn't enjoy the class. He enjoyed it very much.

 _Too_ much, in fact.

He was one of only three men in the class. That honestly didn't trouble him. Even when one of the other men made romantic overtures towards him, he was untroubled. Took it as a compliment, in fact.

The instructor was knowledgeable, friendly, patient and helpful.

It was a good class.

The problem was not the class.

The problem was _Abbie._

Abbie, in her snug-fitting yoga clothing.

Abbie, with her slender, compact body graced with toned muscles that do not detract from her femininity at all.

Abbie, with her glowing skin begging to be touched.

Stretching backwards.

Bending forwards.

Twisting her body in ways that call images from a purloined copy of the _Kama Sutra_ he once glimpsed – for once was enough, for Ichabod Crane – to his mind with startling clarity.

The Sun Salutation was like poetry.

The Downward Facing Dog was like art.

And the Goddess Pose... was pure sin.

It was a battle the entire time. He thought of cold winters at Valley Forge, fighting to keep from losing his toes to frostbite. He thought of the seasickness he suffered on his ocean voyage from England.

He reminded himself of his marriage. A lifeless husk of a marriage, but a marriage nevertheless.

Anything to keep the blood from flowing _there._

When the class mercifully ended, he nearly sprinted to the men's locker room, changed clothes (where the mere presence of a very casually nude octogenarian effectively erased the final vestiges of his arousal), and waited for the Lieutenant in her car.

He sent her a text telling her where he was.

He thought he was in the clear. He thought he had exorcised the erotic demons from his psyche.

Until he went to bed that night.

His back turned to Katrina, he lies awake in bed, eyes wide. If he closes his eyes, he is plagued by images of his partner, in various poses, each more enticing than the last.

Once he is certain his wife is asleep, he slips out of bed and creeps into the shower, where he takes himself into his hand and guiltily indulges his fantasies.

“Abbie...” His hoarse whisper is obscured by the sound of the rushing water as he spends himself down the drain.


	28. Second Chance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One more for the Ichabbie First Kiss thing...

“Kiss me… beneath the milky twilight…”

Abbie looks at the giant screen over center field, watching as hapless couples get targeted to publicly display their affection.

She glances over at Crane, sitting beside her. _And in three, two…_

“What a crude display.”

She indulgently smiles at him, secretly loving it when he rants.

“To be expected to… perform on command in front of thousands like some common—”

“Crane,” Abbie says, her voice slightly shaky. He looks at her, sees her wide, staring eyes, and follows her gaze to the screen.

There they are, their images looming huge on the Jumbo-tron, encircled by a heart.

“Oh,” his eyes widen to match hers. “Er…” He looks at her, then lifts her hand and places a kiss on her knuckles.

They ignore the sounds of disappointment around them, and, thankfully, the person controlling the camera switches to a different, much more enthusiastic pair.

xXx

They don’t discuss the Kiss Cam, but it quickly becomes an elephant in the stadium.

Abbie can still feel his kiss on her hand. His lips were very soft and his beard didn’t seem prickly at all.

Crane’s lips still tingle with the memory of her scent, the texture of her skin. He mentally chastises himself for his cowardice; tells himself he was simply in shock in an attempt to pacify his regret.

They drink beer, they eat pretzels, they share cotton candy (well, Crane eats most of that). Then in the seventh inning, after “Take Me Out to the Ball Game”, the strains of Faith Hill’s “This Kiss” start playing.

“Again?” Abbie asks, puzzling. She didn’t remember there being two rounds of Kiss Cam, but it’s been a while since she’s been to a game, so she reasons they added a second one due to popular demand. Or something.

She glances at Crane and is surprised to see he is silent this time, neither ranting nor bristling, not looking superior. He looks deep in thought, like he is trying to unravel some great mystery.

There is a loud cheer, and Abbie looks up at the screen. _You have got to be kidding me._ She and Crane are on the Jumbo-tron again, encircled by a heart again, only this time the words “SECOND CHANCE” are emblazoned above their heads.

She looks at him and sees him intently staring down at her, his eyes telling truths that both frighten and excite her.

She grabs him by the lapel and pulls, bringing his face down to hers. When she plants her lips on his, there is another cheer.

When he freezes, she thinks maybe she misread what she saw in his eyes. She releases him, looks up at his shocked face for a moment, then turns and takes a swig of her beer, grateful that their moment of fame has passed.

Apart from the congratulatory pats and well-wishes from those sitting around them, of course.

Abbie peeks up at him, wondering if she just messed everything up. He is staring, unseeing, out over the field. His cheeks are a splotchy pink and his fingers are nervously drumming on his thighs.

She sighs and joins him, watching the game without really seeing it.

“I’m gonna run to the ladies’,” she says, tapping his shoulder. She gets up before he can respond.

She doesn’t need to go; she just needs to get away from _him_ for a minute so she can think clearly.

_I would have sworn…_

_I mean, the man talks in wedding vows 75% of the time…_

_Jenny insisted he…_

“Ugh.” She rubs her temples, sitting on the toilet, trying to push her mortification away.

She washes her hands, then makes her way back to their seats, trying to think of a reason to leave. She really doesn’t want to sit there and finish watching the game, but can’t come up with a good excuse to leave. _Traffic? Not feeling well?_

“Lieutenant.”

She is so lost in thought she nearly runs into him. His arms automatically come up and steady her.

“Crane, sorry…” she apologizes as he drops his hands.

“You appeared to be looking so far inward that you had forgotten to also look outward,” he comments.

“Yeah,” she admits. “Look, can we—”

“Leave? I was just seeking you out to ask the same question of you,” he says.

“Let’s go,” she decides, and begins walking. He dutifully follows, hands clasped behind his back.

They don’t say anything further as they walk to the car.

They say very little on the 40-minute drive home. Crane closes his eyes, but Abbie isn’t sure if he is napping or just pretending to do so to avoid conversation.

 _Did I screw things up that badly?_ she thinks, immediately followed by _Oh for Pete’s sake, it was just a kiss, and not much of one at that._

Finally, inside the safety of their home, standing in the kitchen, she decides she can’t take it any more.

“Look, I’m sorry I kissed you, okay?” she says, her tone coming out a little harsher than she intended.

His brow furrows. “You are?”

“Well, it obviously upset you; you’ve hardly said a word to me since then. I… I just wanted that stupid Kiss Cam to focus on someone else, all right?” she says, turning away to hide the hurt on her face.

“Miss Mills,” he starts.

“Forget it happened. It didn’t mean anything.”

“Abbie,” he tries again, his voice softer than she is comfortable hearing right now, “it meant everything, don’t you see?” His hands land on her shoulders, large and warm. “And _that_ is the reason for my taciturnity. I… I regret that our first kiss, something that should have been beautiful and full of meaning… and _private…_ had to be broadcast for all of Citi Field to see.” His fingers have moved, his thumbs rubbing slow circles on the back of her neck as he speaks. “I was shocked, yes, but it was quickly replaced by shame… shame in my own inaction where you are concerned. Specifically, the true nature of my feelings for you.”

Abbie blinks back what can only be tears of relief, takes a deep breath, and says, “Well, Citi Field gave us a second chance, so why should I be any less accommodating?” She turns around and steps closer to him.

Crane’s hands slide down her back, holding her in a loose embrace just in case she decides to change her mind. “Do you mean…?”

“Forget it happened,” she repeats, her tone quite different now. “We’re all alone. The door’s locked. No one is watching.”

He gazes down at her for what feels like an eternity. Just when she thinks he’s going to pull away, he drops his head to meet her upturned face and softly closes his lips over hers.

She’s usually a take-control person in this area, but she lets him drive.

His kiss is slow but not tentative. Exploratory but not shy. He knows what he’s doing, and is relishing the opportunity to let her know this.

He pulls away for a split second, just enough to be able to return to her with his lips parted. He draws her lower lip in and lightly sucks on it, bringing forth a soft moan from her. When his tongue finds his way in, she welcomes it with her own, and it is his turn to moan.

He moves them, turning so her back is to the kitchen island. Then he breaks away again and lifts her up to sit on the counter.

“Damn, Crane,” she gasps just before he claims her lips again. “Why didn’t we do that sooner?”

He looks at her, kisses her hard, and says, "Because I am a coward where you are concerned.” Then he begins trailing kisses down her neck and her fingers slip into his hair. “If I had even the slightest inkling that,” he speaks between kisses, “you requited my feelings, I would have,” he sucks on a sensitive spot that he found because she gasped again, “done this months ago.”

“I don’t want to be grateful for that dumb-ass Kiss Cam, but I kind of am…” she says, wrapping her legs around his waist while his hands find their way inside the back of her shirt.

“Mmm,” he agrees, working his way back to her lips.

“Crane… take me upstairs,” she says, wrapping her arms around her shoulders when he picks her up off the counter.

“I assure you,” he replies, “I will not be needing a second chance for this.” He groans when she kisses his neck, allowing him to see where he’s going. “Nevertheless, I may take one… and possibly a third as well…”


	29. Spring Fling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An AU for the Ichabbie Spring/Abbie Mills Shines on Tumbler and Twitter

Abbie doesn’t want to go. Organized social gatherings have never really been her thing.

And organized social gatherings involving corsets and petticoats are not even up for discussion.

Nevertheless, here she stands, scowling in front of a mirror while her sister Jenny yanks at the laces on her back, cinching her in so tightly that she reasons she’ll pass out after the first hour.

_Maybe it won’t be so bad after all._

“Stop frowning,” Jenny chides her. “You look amazing.”

“Remind me why I’m going to this thing?”

“Because I broke my ankle and you love me,” Jenny says, hobbling back to the living room and heavily sitting on the couch. She hoists her foot up to rest on a pillow atop the coffee table. Her foot is encased in a large gray medical boot and she is under instructions to keep it elevated.

Abbie turns around, her skirts swishing in a way that is not attractive at all and does not remind her of happy childhood memories playing dress-up with her sister. Not in the least. “And why were you going? The Sleepy Hollow Historical Society Spring Cotillion isn’t really your scene.”

“I’m supposed to meet a guy,” she says. “You’ll have to be my proxy.”

“You’re telling me this _now_?”

“Chill; it’s not, like, a date,” Jenny reassures her. “He’s the new museum curator. I’m supposed to get on his good side because Hawley pissed him off. Or something. He was pretty vague about the details.”

“I’m sure,” Abbie says, heading to the bathroom to take the rollers out of her hair and figure out what to do with it. “Hawley would irritate the Pope.”

“He’s not _that…_ never mind, he is,” Jenny concedes, raising her voice enough so Abbie can hear her from the bathroom. “Word has it that this dude is a walking encyclopedia… Hawley really wants to set him up as a buyer.”

“So Nicholas Hawley really is trying to establish himself as a legitimate businessman, hey?” Abbie calls back.

“Yep. Says he’s getting too old to still be skulking around in seedy locations and running from the authorities,” Jenny replies. “Shit,” she mutters. “Hey, I left my pain meds in there. Would you bring them out when you’re done?”

“Yeah,” Abbie replies. “I’m almost done.”

A few minutes later, she emerges, and Jenny’s jaw drops. “Wow,” she says as Abbie passes her the pills. “You look amazing.”

“You think so? I feel like one of those doll cakes. You know, the kind with half a Barbie doll sticking out of the top?” Abbie replies.

Jenny laughs. “Oh my God, now I know exactly what I’m doing for your next birthday,” she says, still laughing.

Abbie narrows her eyes. “I’mma just pretend it’s the pain meds addling your judgment right now,” she says. The doorbell rings. “Saved by the bell,” she sighs, walking to answer it. “Hey, Frank, hey Cynthia,” she greets them. “You guys look great.”

“Thanks, so do you!” Cynthia gushes. “You sure that dress was supposed to be for Jenny? It fits you like a glove!”

“Yeah, a glove that’s a little too long,” Abbie chuckles, showing her how the skirt drags on the floor just a bit. “Thanks for picking me up, Frank. I don’t think I could have driven in this thing.”

“No problem, Mills. Hey Jenny, you take it easy, okay?” Frank says, looking over at the younger Mills sister.

“Not much choice in the matter,” Jenny sighs. “So tonight it’s going to be me, Yuri, and Victor hanging out together.”

Frank gives her a blank look. “Okay then.”

“Anime,” Abbie mutters.

“Thank you,” Frank mumbles back.

“What’s this guy’s name again? It was something unusual…” Abbie asks.

“Crane,” Jenny answers. “Ichabod Crane. All I know about him is he’s a tall white guy with a beard.”

Abbie rolls her eyes. “That should narrow it down,” she sarcastically replies.

“He’s supposed to be really skinny, too,” Jenny supplies, and Abbie nods. That will definitely set him apart from several of the men in the Historical Society and Re-enactor’s Guild.

“I won’t be late,” Abbie says just before following Frank and Cynthia out.

xXx

The party is in full swing when they arrive, but heads still turn at their entrance. As chief of police, Frank is well-known in the community and his charismatic personality and commanding presence naturally attracts attention wherever he goes. And with a beautiful woman on _each_ arm, they make quite an entrance.

“Frank!” He is hailed almost immediately, and Abbie releases his arm to let him and Cynthia head over to greet whoever it is that has called.

She heads for the refreshment table, eyes scanning the crowd for a tall, skinny, bearded white man.

 _Plenty of men. Plenty of white. Plenty of beards. Some tall. Few skinny._ Someone catches her eye. _Well, he’s skinny, but not tall and it doesn’t even look like he could grow a beard if he wanted to._

She accepts an offered cup of punch and takes a sip. It’s non-alcoholic and very sweet. She takes another sip and looks around. There are tables around the perimeter, a small stage at one end bearing a small musical ensemble, and a large open area in the center where some people are dancing. The refreshment table beside her has not only the aforementioned punch but an assortment of canapés. Some look like historical accuracy was at least attempted. Others do not.

Her cup halfway to her lips, her eyes catch sight of someone; a lithe, graceful figure on the dance floor, currently spinning a pretty redhead in some sort of Waltz.

Tall. White. Thin. Bearded.

He looks like he has literally been dropped out of the late 1700s, clad in the most authentic costume Abbie has ever seen, his long hair pulled back into a neat queue, tied with a ribbon. She steps closer to the dance floor and sees he is wearing knee-length breeches and long boots, and even spies the chain of a pocket watch glinting next to his waistcoat.

“Hey, Abbie,” a familiar voice greets.

Abbie turns and sees Andy Brooks standing beside her. “Hi, Andy. I didn’t know you’d be here,” she says.

“I’m surprised to see you, too,” he replies. “I wouldn’t have thought that the re-enactors’ annual spring fling would be your scene.”

“Jenny was actually going to come, but she broke her ankle this morning,” she explains. “Didn’t want to waste the ticket.” For some reason she decides to not tell him her official business there.

“Understood,” he says.

“Hey, do you know who that guy is? I don’t think I’ve seen him before,” she asks, keeping her tone light and conversational as she nods towards the tall man on the dance floor.

“Oh that’s the new museum curator. Some weird British guy with a fetish for American history, from what I hear,” Andy says. “And you know Caroline.”

Abbie’s eyes widen and she looks more closely. “Caroline from the library? I didn’t even recognize her all dressed up like that!”

“Yeah, she’s really into this re-enactment stuff. And I guess they’re cousins or something, too,” he says.

“You’ve got all the dirt, don’t you?” she asks, chuckling. Unlike Abbie, who is a detective, Andy is a beat cop, out and about in the city almost every day, so he sees and hears almost everything that goes on in their relatively small city.

“Do you want to dance?” he suddenly asks.

“Um, not right now, sorry,” Abbie answers. “I only just got here and am still getting used to all this. You should ask Caroline when the next song starts,” she suggests, knowing that while Andy is a little sweet on her, he’s also developed quite a crush on Caroline.

“What? But…”

“Never know unless you try,” Abbie goads. She pats his shoulder. “Talk to you later,” she adds, then goes to dispose of her cup, keeping half an eye on the dance floor.

The song ends. She turns to watch and smiles when Andy strides down and shyly asks Caroline for the next dance. She beams up at him, and when she takes his hand, Crane bends his waist in a graceful bow before sweeping from the floor.

 _He looks like a crane,_ Abbie observes. _Tall and lanky, but graceful._ She tries to get a good look at him, but it proves more difficult than she expected. He keeps moving, circulating around, behaving very much like he is a nobleman and this is _his_ cotillion. He has an air of arrogance about him, but he also appears to be very charming and well-liked. His hands are generally clasped behind his back, but when he speaks, he freely gestures with them, all broad hands and long fingers.

When he finally turns his face enough so Abbie can _really_ see him, she stares for a full minute before she realizes she has been gaping at him.

 _He’s… beautiful._ She’s never had that thought about a man before, but it is the right word for him. Broad forehead, straight nose, and eyes so blue she can make out their exact shade from 20 yards away.

Those blue eyes connect with hers, and Abbie’s face suddenly heats. She looks away, then glances back to discover that not only is he still watching her, but he is moving towards her. Quite deliberately.

She straightens her back and turns to face him fully, biting back her urge to smirk when his long stride falters for just a moment. _Yeah, that’s right. I’m in charge here._

“Excuse me, but I am wondering how it is possible we haven’t met,” he greets with a small smile. “Ichabod Crane,” he introduces himself with a slight bow and an offered hand.

Now it is Abbie’s turn to falter. _Damn. His voice sounds how chocolate tastes._ She tells the butterflies having a rave in her stomach to cool it and extends her hand. “Abbie Mills,” she says, looking up at him. _Damn again. He must be a foot taller than me._

He gently grasps her hand and bows over it, placing a soft kiss on her knuckles. “Mills?” he asks, reluctantly releasing her hand. “I was to meet with a Jennifer Mills this evening; are you acquainted with her?”

“She’s my sister,” Abbie explains. “She couldn’t make it, so she asked me to come in her place. She broke her ankle.”

His eyebrow quirks upwards. “It seems her misfortune is my boon,” he smoothly replies. “Do send my wishes for a speedy recovery to your sister.”

“I will, thanks,” she replies, trying to maintain her composure. She looks up at him and sees his gaze flicker to her lips for just a second, and realizes then that she had just licked them. _How am I unconsciously flirting?_ “Um, so you know why you were supposed to meet Jenny then?” she hesitantly broaches.

“Of course. She seemed to think she needed to smooth things over between myself and Mr. Hawley,” he answers with a chuckle. “I assure you, Miss Mills, I have every intention of doing business with Mr. Hawley. My personal feelings are irrelevant when it comes to business.”

Abbie blinks, surprised. “Oh. Well. That was easy,” she says. Suddenly not knowing what to say, she immediately falls into old habits and begins to bail. “It was very nice meeting you, and I hope to see you around town.”

“Would you honor me with one dance before you make your hasty departure?” he says, his words coming right on the tail end of hers, like he is afraid that her coach is about to become a pumpkin.

“Oh, I don’t know how—”

“It’s frightfully simple, I assure you,” he presses, holding his hand out.

That large, elegant limb beckons to her. She remembers the brief feeling of his fingers around hers before his soft lips pressed her hand. She places hers in it. It looks ridiculously small.

He seems to notice that detail as well. “You are so delightfully petite,” he comments, escorting her to the edge of the dance floor. “This piece will be done in a moment,” he tells her. She dumbly nods, noticing he hasn’t released her hand.

“How do you like Sleepy Hollow?” she asks, inwardly cringing at her pathetic attempt at making small talk. Specifically, small talk with _him._ It seems somehow beneath him.

He indulgently smiles down at her, eyes half-lidded as he peers over the high collar of his jacket. “I am liking it more and more with each passing moment,” he says. The song winds down and he leads her onto the dance floor.

Abbie suddenly feels like the room has gone dark around them and they are in a spotlight. She is keenly aware of many sets of eyes on them, but dutifully ignores them, deciding to concentrate on not tripping over her skirts or stepping on his feet.

Crane pulls her close, one hand spanning half of her waist, the other holding hers. “Just follow me,” he intones, gazing down at her like she is the only woman in the room.

“Okay,” she answers, her voice a whisper.

He was right. It is frightfully simple. He is an excellent leader, and soon the curious looks from the other partygoers fade from her consciousness. He commands all of her attention and seems to be just as absorbed in her.

“We never resolved the issue of how it is that we have not yet met,” he says once he is certain she has the steps down. “Hold on,” he adds, releasing her waist to twirl her away and back.

“Oh!” Abbie exclaims, surprised. “Don’t get fancy on me now,” she says, laughing. “But I guess one of us has always been in the wrong place at the wrong time,” she theorizes.

“What is your occupation?” he asks, still trying to piece this puzzle together.

“Sheriff’s detective,” she answers.

“How very impressive,” he replies. “You work with Captain Irving then?”

“Yes. I’m a Lieutenant, so he’s my boss,” she explains. “I haven’t been to the museum in quite a while either,” she confesses.

“Pity,” he says with a slight frown. “We’ll be opening an exciting new exhibit on Colonial Era textiles next week,” he adds, his eyes alight with mischief.

“Textiles, hey? Well, that _is_ exciting.” She plays along, grinning up at him.

The song finishes and the musicians announce they are taking a break.

“Please do not leave yet; I would very much like to continue talking with you,” Crane implores, holding tight to her hand. “I find your company most enjoyable.”

Abbie takes his arm. “You know what? Me too,” she responds, a little surprised. She hasn’t been this interested in a man in a very long time.

He escorts her out a back door and into a garden that is just starting to come to life. It smells of green and dirt and she can hear the wind in the new leaves of the trees. There is a winding path leading through it.

“Tell me, Lieutenant, what brought you to Sleepy Hollow?” Crane asks.

“I like how you say that. And I’ve lived here all my life,” Abbie answers.

He chuckles, placing his free hand over hers on his arm. “How wonderful,” he replies, but doesn’t press her for more details. There is a bench nearby, and he guides her there to sit.

“And what brought _you_ to Sleepy Hollow?” she counters.

He smiles. “My dear cousin Caroline informed me of the position opening at the museum here,” he answers, turning his body towards hers. His legs are so long his knees get lost in her voluminous skirts. “I had…” he pauses now, frowning, “I had just ended a relationship and was feeling rather down about my life. I thought a change of scenery would do wonders.”

“Oh,” Abbie replies, blinking. “I’m sorry to hear that.” She is torn between not wanting to know and needing to hear all the sordid details, but doesn’t ask. _We only_ just _met._ She simply places her hand over his.

“Thank you,” he says. “But, truly, I am, as they say, ‘good.’ Several months have passed and I am well over her.” He turns his hand under hers and wraps his fingers around it.

“So your thought was a good one then?” she asks. “Your thought about a change of scenery?”

He nods. His blue eyes search her face for a moment before he says, “And the last half an hour has been worth the move all on its own.”

She smiles, then bites her lower lip, unintentionally drawing his eyes there again. He strokes the back of her hand with his thumb and her stomach flips.

“Please forgive me for being so forward,” he says, his voice low and soft, “but you are the most exquisitely beautiful woman I have ever seen.” He lifts her hand and kisses it again. “And your beauty is only enhanced by your intelligence and charm.”

“Thank you,” she replies once she finds her breath. She looks down and sees her hand in his, at how small it looks in his. She looks back up, sees the question in his eyes, and wonders if he’s _forward_ enough to ask it.

After a second, she decides _screw it._ She reaches up with her free hand and touches his cheek, her fingers lightly burrowing into his short beard. He turns his face into her palm, craving more contact. She caresses his cheek with her thumb, then quickly but gently guides his face down towards hers as she leans upward to press her lips to his in a fervent kiss.

He stiffens in surprise for an almost imperceptible moment, then releases her hand to wrap his arms around her, pulling her closer.

Abbie winds her arms up around his neck, wanting to run her fingers through his hair but resisting, as they will have to go back inside at some point. He shifts slightly, and she thinks he’s going to pull away. Instead, he doubles his effort, his slick tongue sliding between her willingly parted lips. She eagerly meets it with her own, just as hungry as he.

“Abbie.”

He manages to grunt her name as he turns her into a molten puddle with his kisses. She hasn’t been kissed like this in what feels like ages, and isn’t sure if it’s that that’s making her feel half drunk or if it’s him.

When she can’t stop the moan from escaping her throat, she decides it’s definitely him.

“You are intoxicating,” he murmurs, leaning down to trail kisses down the column of her neck.

“I’m feeling a little drunk myself,” she breathily answers, loving the feel of his beard on her skin and wanting to know what it will feel like on the rest of her body.

He moves back up to her lips, gives her a slow, deep kiss, then pulls away. He gazes into her large, brown eyes and says, “I am very glad your sister was unable to come, though I am not glad she has an injury.”

“Yeah,” Abbie agrees. Music from the party faintly drifts out to them, and she suddenly remembers that they aren’t the only two people in the world. “Are people missing you in there?” she asks.

Crane sighs. “Possibly. Are you still planning to leave?” he asks, standing.

She takes his arm again. “Well, yes, but… not right now.”

xXx

Frank didn’t seem as surprised as Abbie thought he would be when she told him she didn’t need a ride home.

Of course, she did dance with Crane a lot, and was by his side for most of the evening, which put her on the receiving end of dirty looks from several other young women there.

When they leave together, it is earlier than Crane was planning but later than Abbie was. His attention has her reeling; he is every inch a perfect gentleman but every look he gives her, every touch, no matter how fleeting, has her pulse racing and blood heating. And her panties soaking.

He is a wolf in sheep’s clothing in the best possible way. She loves it.

He opens the car door for her and helps her inside, even helping to gather her skirts. He kisses her palm before closing the door.

He looks at her, fingers anxiously drumming on the steering wheel.

“Your place,” she says, answering his unasked question. When he doesn’t move, she says, “I mean, if that’s—”

He shifts the car into gear and peels out of the parking lot. “This is… uncharacteristic behavior for me,” he says after a minute. But he keeps driving.

“Me too,” she answers. “And we don’t have to… if you don’t feel right about it…”

“No, no, that’s the issue,” he quickly reassures her, taking her hand. “I do feel right about it. More right than I’ve felt about anything, and it has my mind all higgledy-piggledy.” At a stoplight, he kisses her hand, then leans over and kisses her lips. “But I feel as though I have been waiting for you,” he says. “Specifically, you.”

Abbie can only nod in understanding, staring back into his earnest blue eyes. She sees the light change in her periphery. “The light is green,” she whispers.

“Oh,” he exclaims, and returns his attention to the road.

A short time later, they reach a modest house near the edge of town. He pulls into the garage and turns the car off.

Abbie waits, knowing he’ll likely want to open her door for her again. He does, then leads her inside.

“Nice place,” she dumbly says, standing in the entranceway.

“I am simply renting it for the time being,” he apologetically says, removing his coat and boots.

“It’s very you,” she replies, stepping closer to him. The furniture is elegant but comfortable, there is a very large bookshelf on one wall, and it is spotlessly clean. The one surprising detail is a gaming system that looks like it gets a lot of use. She walks toward the coffee table and picks up a wireless controller. “This is a bit of a surprise though,” she says, waving it at him.

He sheepishly grins. “Guilty pleasure,” he admits. “There is something to be said for mindless entertainment. It—”

She holds up her hand. “I get it,” she says. “You use your brain all day, so it’s nice to come home and _not_ sometimes.”

He smiles and angles his head at her in impressed acknowledgment. “Indeed,” he agrees, slowly walking towards her. “And, speaking of mindless activities…” he rumbles, sliding his hands around her waist and pulling her against him.

“If you expect me to believe that you,” she pauses while he kisses her, “behave mindlessly while doing,” another kiss, “ _this_ , think again, Dr. Crane.”

“It seems you have me all figured out already, Lieutenant,” he replies, pulling away only to lead her to his bedroom. “You must be an excellent detective.”

She turns around and presents her back to him. His deft fingers quickly and easily deal with the laces, and Abbie indulges in several deep breaths as the corseted dress grows looser and looser. “I was planning on going into the FBI training program,” she says, sighing as he begins removing her dress, chasing each new inch of skin with his lips. “But… but I didn’t.”

“Why ever not?” he softly asks, turning her around when she is standing in the middle of a puddle of fabric. He is kneeling, and leans forward to kiss her stomach. “You are perfection,” he murmurs against her skin.

“Oh, God,” she quietly moans, her eyes drifting closed. “It’s a long story… can I tell you later?” she asks.

He stands. “Of course, Treasure.” Then he effortlessly lifts her up out of her dress and bends down again to remove her shoes.

When he stands again, she says, “You have too many clothes on,” and reaches for the buttons on his waistcoat. He carefully extracts the pocket watch while she opens the buttons.

“It belonged to my great-great-grandfather,” he says, cradling it in his palm to show her before gently setting it on the top of a dresser.

“It’s beautiful,” she says, then slides her hands inside to push the vest from his shoulders. He shrugs out of the garment as she tackles the buttons at his waist. “This seems very… authentic,” she mumbles, briefly struggling with the fastenings.

He warmly chuckles, kissing the top of her her head. “May I help you?” he asks.

“No, I got it…” she declares, sliding her small hands inside. He jumps, then groans, when she pulls him against her.

“Minx,” he growls, then presses his hips forward so she can feel the effect she is having on him.

She squeezes his ass, then pushes his breeches down to the floor. He steps back and she giggles.

“What?”

“Your socks,” she says, pressing her lips together, “and I wasn’t expecting your drawers to be authentic, too.”

He cocks an eyebrow at her. “Anything worth doing is worth doing thoroughly and well, Miss Mills,” he suggestively says, giving her a look that makes her blood flame.

“Damn,” she sighs, watching as he quickly divests himself of his shirt and long socks, revealing a very slender but very toned body. “Damn,” she repeats, softer. _I wasn’t expecting muscle definition on this string bean._

“Something amiss?” he asks, striding to the bed and flipping the covers back before reaching in a bedside drawer and withdrawing a box of condoms. When he looks back up at her, his smug expression tells her he fully understood her exclamations.

“Shut up,” she says. Then she decides to fight fire with fire, reaching back and unhooking her strapless demi-bra. She slides it from her arms and drops it on the floor with the rest of her clothes.

He swallows hard, his fingers twitching at his sides as he stares. “Come here,” he finally rumbles, and her feet are moving before she even tells them to. He slides his hands around her body, then drops his head to kiss her.

“Am I the first woman you’ve been with since your ex?” Abbie asks, unable to contain the question that has been lurking in the back of her mind since she decided to come home with him.

“No,” he answers, lowering them to the bed. “I have already had the shameful experience of a ‘rebound girl’,” he continues, moving to hover over her. “And even if I hadn’t, I… I do not think I could ever think of you as a ‘rebound’, Abbie.” He catches her parted lips in a deep kiss, then says, “You see, I am already rather… helplessly… smitten with you.”

Abbie moans when he descends over her once more, kissing her with renewed passion. When he moves down her neck, she says, “Oh, God, that voice of yours…”

“Hmm?” Crane absently queries, seemingly intent on kissing every inch of her skin.

“The things you say… no one has ever spoken to me like that… and then your stupid… molten chocolate voice saying them… just… unh…” she haltingly explains, her body writhing under his attention.

“My ‘molten chocolate voice’?” he asks, lifting his head from her breast, lips curved in an amused smirk. “I don’t believe it has ever been called that before.”

“Well, we’re both experiencing firsts tonight then, aren’t we?” she says, sliding her hands down his long torso until she finds the waist of his Colonial-Era underpants. “And you need to take these ridiculous things off,” she adds, pushing at them.

He snorts, then rolls to the side and obeys, dropping them to the floor. “Better?”

Her eyes automatically flit to his groin. “Damn.”

“You say that a lot,” he says, unsuccessfully trying to hide his amusement. Then he scoots over and begins slowly peeling her stockings down. He kisses his way up her legs, then hooks his long fingers into her panties and pulls them down as well. After he drops them, he gazes down at her, looking like a goddess on his bed. “Damn,” he murmurs.

Abbie laughs. “Come here,” she says, and he is over her before he even realizes he has moved. His hand glides over her body, familiarizing himself with her curves and contours. “Mmm,” she hums, enjoying his touch, “those things are instruments of sin.”

“What things?” he asks, then slides his tongue around her already-stiff nipple.

“Your hands,” she breathily answers, reaching for the band holding his hair back. She works it free and delves her hands into his cool, soft waves. “I’ve been wanting them on me all night.”

“They’ve been wanting to be on you all night,” he replies, moving his lips to her other breast while he slides one hand down over her stomach to touch between her thighs.

“Ohhhh, yesssss,” she hisses when his fingers slip between her soaking folds, pressing her hips upward, craving more.

“So wet,” he rumbles, his face pressing into her neck. “Is this all for me?”

“Arrogant,” she gasps, tugging his hair with one hand while the other goes questing to give him a taste of his own medicine. He grunts when she wraps her fingers around him and she smugly smiles. She strokes him a few times and her smile falls when the size of him truly registers in her brain. “Damn,” she whispers again, hoping he doesn’t hear her this time.

When he chuckles, she knows he has.

“Abbie,” he says a moment later, “can you reach the…?”

“Yeah,” she answers, groping towards the nightstand. With trembling hands (because he hasn’t stopped his activities), she manages to get a condom out of the box and open.

He leans back and takes it from her, then rolls it over himself. He leans down and kisses her once more, and she takes him in her hand again, guiding him into place.

“Ichabod,” she gasps when he enters her, filling her fuller than she ever has been. “Ohmygod…”

“Are you all right?” he asks, not moving yet.

“God, yes,” she answers, hitching her knees higher on his hips.

“Good,” he grunts, then slides back and thrusts forward again. He starts slowly, then gradually increases his pace.

 _Oh God, he can move._ Abbie can only hang on and enjoy the ride, letting her hands grab what they will, kissing his face, shoulder, or chest, whatever comes within reach.

“Abbie,” he pants her name, messily kissing her before simply gazing down into her eyes. “You are… so…”

“You too,” she returns, lightly raking her fingers over his chest. “Oh… oh, right there,” she says as her eyes drift closed.

“Here?” he asks, repeating what she liked.

“Yes!” she exclaims, so he does it again and again until she is crying out his name and digging her short nails into his shoulders.

“Bloody hell,” he curses, the sight of her orgasm his undoing. He snaps his hips into her two more times then his whole body tenses as he comes, growling into her neck as he does so.

Then he slumps over her, careful not to drop his full weight on her. He kisses the edge of her jaw and gently eases himself out of her and lands beside her on the bed.

“Holy shit,” she says, exhaling heavily.

“Indeed,” he agrees. He finds her hand and lifts it to his lips. “Will you stay?” he asks.

“Yes,” she immediately answers.

xXx

Jenny’s head pops up at the sound of the door opening. “Well, look at you, doing the Colonial Walk of Sh— Abbie, where is the dress? That thing was rented!”

Abbie saunters through, barefoot and wearing a t-shirt and shorts that are clearly not hers (because she is swimming in them and she definitely did not go to Oxford). “Relax,” she says, walking back to her bedroom. When she emerges a few seconds later, she says, “Ichabod is going to return it for us.”

“Ichabod? You’ve been with Ichabod-fucking-Crane _all night_?” Jenny asks, looking like she wants to leap off of the couch.

Abbie is unable to stop the grin from spreading across her face before she goes back outside. Jenny, far too curious, hoists herself off of the couch and clumps over to the window. “Holy shit,” she whispers, watching her big sister pass the hanger and garment bag through the window of a very nice car to a man who is apparently Ichabod Crane. Her sister chats with him for a few more seconds, then leans in through the window and kisses him quite thoroughly. When she steps away, Jenny gets a pretty decent look at him. “Ooo, he fine,” she says, and then notices the look he is giving Abbie. “And ooo, he _gone_ ,” she adds. Crane puts a pair of aviator sunglasses on, then backs his car out of the driveway.

Abbie returns and has the audacity to laugh at her sister for being nosy. “I knew you wouldn’t be able to resist.”

“Damn, girl, I said get on his good side, not get all up on him!” Jenny exclaims. After a beat, she adds, “Nice work, though.”

“Oh, I got on his good side all right,” Abbie replies, flopping on the couch next to her sister. “Not that it was necessary. He was already planning on doing business with Hawley anyway, even though he doesn’t like him.”

“He is?” Jenny picks up her phone and begins texting Hawley.

“Oh… you’re supposed to tell ‘Mr. Hawley’ that he is to… wait, I have to get this right,” Abbie says, thinking. “He is to call upon Dr. Crane when and _only_ when he has something worth his time.”

Jenny’s eyebrows raise in surprise and amusement. “Got it. Anything else?”

“Yes,” Abbie answers, laughing. She pauses to clear her throat before declaring, “Dr. Crane is in no way interested in being Mr. Hawley’s _buddy –_ you should have heard how much disdain was in his voice on that word, it was glorious – and Hawley is to be informed that their only interactions will be business-related.”

Jenny is laughing so hard she has to put her phone down for a minute. “Oh my God, _that_ was the problem?” she asks. “Hawley was trying to buddy up to him instead of treating him like a professional associate… oh jeez…” she falls to laughing again. “This is too good. I have to meet this guy.”

“Well, you’ll get your wish, because he’s coming back with coffee after returning the dress,” Abbie says, standing.

“Where are you going?”

“I need to take a shower,” she says.

“You didn’t take one over at Mr. Wonderful’s place?” Jenny asks.

“That’s _Dr._ Wonderful, thank you very much, and yes, I did, but…”

“You got more dirty than clean, didn’t you?” Jenny guesses.

“Mmmaybe,” Abbie answers, strolling away with an extra swing in her hips. “I’m actually surprised I’m able to walk today,” she calls just before shutting the bathroom door.

“That is _it,_ ” Jenny declares, rising again and hobbling to the bathroom. She gets to the door just as she hears the metallic scrape of the shower curtain, and opens it. “Damn, Abbie, was the dick _that_ good?” she asks, sitting on the toilet.

Abbie pokes her head out and looks at her sister. “You have _no_ idea,” she says, her face serious and eyes wide. She retreats back into the shower. “He’s completely amazing,” she continues. “He honest-to-goodness swept me off my feet.”

“Shit, why did I have to break my ankle?” Jenny laments. “I could have been the one getting romanced by tall, dark, and British all night.”

“Have you forgotten about Joe?” Abbie asks.

“Joe is on my shit list right now,” Jenny answers, frowning. “For being out of town when I broke my ankle.”

“Jenny, you do realize that’s tremendously unreasonable, right? He had to go to that training, and it’s not like you scheduled your broken ankle,” Abbie says.

“I know. I’m just bitter because he’s not here taking care of me. What good is having a boyfriend who is an EMT if he’s not around when you get hurt?” Jenny complains.

“Sorry, Jen,” Abbie says. “And I promise I’ll tell you all about Ichabod later. But since he’s coming back in soon, I don’t want to launch into it now. All I’ll say is the man has serious game and I was getting a hell of a lot of stink-eye from most of the single women at that dance.”

“Wow,” Jenny replies. “I probably should go back out there in case he comes back.”

“Thanks. I won’t be long,” Abbie tells her. “And Jenny?”

“Yeah?”

“Thanks for making me go.”

Jenny chuckles and heads back out to the living room.

Crane arrives before Abbie has emerged, so Jenny answers the door.

“Ah, Miss Jenny, I presume,” he greets her. “I am sorry to hear of your injury,” he adds, and hands her a bouquet of yellow daisies, clearly purchased at a convenience store.

Still, Jenny smiles. _Damn it, he is charming._ “Thanks,” she says, stepping aside to let him through. He has a tray with coffees in his other hand, and she leads him to the kitchen island bar to set them down.

“I shall return presently,” he says with a nod, then heads out to his car. When he returns a moment later with a box of donuts and another bouquet for Abbie – red roses – Abbie also appears.

“I like this guy,” Jenny says, appreciatively eyeing the donuts.


	30. Deviating

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for noisywastelandphilosopher and sleepymr

Abbie felt the sigh deep in her bones. It was a deep, heavy,  _pitiful_ sigh. A well-constructed sigh, comprised of a lethal combination of carbon dioxide and discontent.

And it wasn’t hers.

“Holy crap, are you _that_ bored?” she asks, setting her phone down on the coffee table with a decisive _click._

Crane has the audacity to look somewhere between innocent and affronted. “I beg your pardon?”

“You keep _sighing_ like someone shot your dog,” she says. “Do you really need me to entertain you 24/7?”

He straightens his back and squares his shoulders before lifting that index finger of his. “I’ll have you know that I was an only child—”

“That explains a lot,” she mutters.

He stumbles over his rant for a second, then regroups and continues. “And I spent many a diverting hour wiling away the time  _on my own_ .”

She purses her lips and quirks her head at him. “So what’s with all the sighing then?”

“The lull between tribulations is always a trying time for me. I have nothing to research. No mysteries to unravel; no ancient language to decipher. It’s rather…”

“Boring?” she pointedly supplies, raising her eyebrow at him.

He glowers.

They sit in silence for another thirty seconds before Abbie says, “I’ve been feeling like baking. Do you want to help me bake something?” She’s having too much fun needling him to admit that she was feeling pretty bored herself. They don’t need to do any shopping, the house is clean, there’s nothing on TV, and it’s a miserable day. She refuses to acknowledge a few of the… _other_ ways they could spend their time on a rainy Sunday. No matter how frequent and insistent those thoughts are becoming.

Crane perks up, only too willing to participate in any activity she might suggest. “What were you thinking of baking?”

She stands, swinging her bare feet down from the couch. “You can pick. Anything you like, provided we have the ingredients on-hand. I am  _not_ going out in that mess.”

“I am more than willing to venture out—”

“Crane.”

“Very well,” he agrees, and stands. He follows her to the kitchen.

Abbie reaches up into the cupboard for the appropriate cookbook binder, straining up on tiptoe until Crane sidles up behind her and plucks it down with no trouble at all.

“Thank you,” she says. She secretly likes it when he does that, which is why she didn’t bother going to get her stepstool.

He merely nods in response, then begins flipping through the binder.  “ Hmm,” he comments, sounding interested.

“Oh yeah… haven’t made those in a while though. Kind of fun,” she says, looking over to see what recipe he is pondering. _Actually that sounds pretty good._

He marks the page with his finger, then continues. Once he reaches the end, he flips back to the page he had marked, obviously not finding anything else that struck his fancy.

“Bagels it is then,” she says, going to retrieve her stand mixer. She brings it to the island and plugs it in while he goes about gathering ingredients.

Crane places the flour and yeast beside the mixer. Abbie turns on the water, occasionally sticking her fingers under it to test the temperature.

“Do we have a thermometer?” he asks, opening drawers.

“For what?” she returns filling a measuring cup.

“To ensure the water temperature is correct. The recipe says 110 degrees,” he answers, pointing to the page.

“Pssh, it’s fine,” she says, waving her hand. Then she sticks her finger in the water. “Yeah, this is fine.”

He raises an eyebrow at her, then reaches for the sugar.

“Honey,” she says.

“I beg your pardon?” he asks, nearly hitting his head on the overhead cupboard.

“I want the honey, not the sugar,” she clarifies. “Darling,” she adds, just to goad him.

“Very droll,” he says. “But surely, the recipe calls for…”

“I like the flavor I get from honey,” she explains.

He nods and puts the sugar back.

“We still need the sugar though,” she says, trying not to laugh.

He huffs, pulls the sugar canister back out, then withdraws the salt and the little plastic bear full of honey.

“May I measure the flour into the bowl, or do you have alternate instructions for that as well?” he asks, hovering over her shoulder.

“Knock yourself out,” she mildly replies, adding the honey and salt to her warm water.

Crane measures very carefully, and Abbie smiles at how hard he’s trying. He learned the hard way that baking isn’t exactly like cooking. He’s gotten quite good at cooking, and loves to experiment, but when he tried the same extemporaneous tactics with some muffins, things didn’t go so well.

So the fact that Abbie keeps deviating from the recipe is putting him in quite a state.

“The recipe calls for _packets_ of yeast. You have a _jar_ ,” he says, frowning. He picks up the jar and peers at the label. “Ah, there is an equivalency guide—”

“I’ve gotten too many packets with dead yeast in them to trust them anymore. Just use a tablespoon,” she says, watching him read the side of the jar of yeast and mentally calculate how much he needs to make 2 packets’ worth.

“According to my calculations based on these instructions, it should be four and one-half teaspoons, which is equivalent to a tablespoon and a half,” he says.

“You only need one tablespoon,” she repeats. “One time I made these and that was all I had left in the jar, so I decided to give it a whirl anyway. Turned out just fine.”

He opens his mouth, then closes it and flips the set of measuring spoons in his hand from the teaspoon to the tablespoon.

Abbie tries not to notice (again) how large and nimble his hands and fingers are. She returns to stirring, trying to get the salt to dissolve as much as possible before the water gets too cool.

“Whenever you are ready, Lieutenant,” he says, gesturing towards the bowl.

She nods and pours the water mixture into the flour and yeast, then lowers the top of the mixer into the bowl, locks it, and turns it on low.

“Three minutes,” Crane declares, setting a timer.

Abbie just rolls her eyes. Then she decides to throw him another curve ball. “What kind of bagels do you want to make?”

“What?”

“Well, we can make plain bagels,” she explains. “Or we can add stuff.”

His eyes widen further. “ Stuff?”

“Come on, man, you’ve been to Bagel Emporium,” she presses.

“I think we should adhere to the printed recipe,” he says, tapping the page. “Well, as much as we are currently able, _now_ , considering you have already deviated,” he peevishly adds.

“You don’t want cinnamon raisin? Or… poppy seed? Chocolate chip?” she asks.

“Well… _perhaps_ cinnamon raisin might do,” he grudgingly allows.

She immediately goes to the spice rack and grabs the cinnamon. “I’ll even use the good cinnamon,” she says, showing him the little glass bottle with the label saying  _Vietnamese Cinnamon_ instead of the little plastic one with the orange label.

“Do we have raisins?” he asks, foraging in the pantry. “Ah. We do. Miss Mills!” he exclaims, turning around to see her indiscriminately dumping cinnamon into the bowl.

“What? We don’t have a measurement for this,” she says, then turns off the whisk just as the timer goes off. If he was wearing pearls, he’d be clutching them right now, and she has to hold back her laughter at the sight of him. 

Crane silences the beeping timer, then sets the raisins on the island. “How do you know you have the right amount then?”

Abbie peers into the bowl. “It just looks right. See?”

He looks. He can’t argue with her. The dough has a pleasing scattering of cinnamon speckles, looking rather like a snickerdoodle cookie. “Do we add the raisins now?” he asks while she begins measuring more flour.

“Yeah.”

“I’m afraid to ask…”

“A nice handful,” she says, smiling.

He groans, but complies, dumping a pile of raisins in on top of the first batch of flour. Then he pauses a moment, and adds just a little more. “I like raisins,” he quietly admits.

She chuckles to herself, then attaches the dough hook. She turns the mixer on again. “I know,” she says.

“Lieutenant, it isn’t getting all the material,” Crane comments, peering over the bowl.

“Give it time, man,” Abbie says, leaning back against the counter. She crosses her arms in front of her, calmly waiting.

He eyes move of their own accord, flicking downward for a split second to the deep crease of her cleavage, pushed further together by her crossed arms. He looks away just as quickly, and his fingers fidget at his side as he looks back at the dough coming together. “Ah. I see,” he quietly says, then turns the mixer off and raises the hook.

She steps forward and nudges him aside with her hip so she can add more flour. He nearly jumps out of his skin at the overly-familiar gesture. As he watches her scoop and dump, he realizes that there really is no such thing as “overly-familiar” between the two of them.

Well, almost.

He loves moments like this, when they are alone together, doing something  _normal_ , when he can see her happy and unarmed and relaxed.  _ Unguarded. _ When he remembers his best friend and fellow Witness is not only a formidable force for good but also a very beautiful woman.

His fingers twitch again. He loves these moments, but they frighten him. Because it forces him to examine feelings he doesn’t feel he has the right to have.

“ Earth to Crane.” Her voice brings him back from his reverie. Like always.

“ Hmm?” he asks, looking down at her dear, curious face.

“ Where did you go?” she softly asks. She raises her hand and rests it on his chest.

“ I was right beside you, Lieutenant, as always,” he answers, placing his hand over hers, engulfing it.

She snorts and rolls her eyes. “That’s not what I meant. Never mind.” She shakes her head, deciding it isn’t important, sliding her hand out from under his to switch off the mixer again.

“ It looks a trifle soft yet,” he says, looking over her shoulder.

“ Yeah, it needs a little more flour,” she agrees, scraping the dough off of the hook with her fingers. “Still sticky.”

A few minutes later, Abbie dumps the dough onto a large plastic cutting board on the counter.

“ The recipe states—”

“ I use the cutting board on top of the counter because it isn’t as cold as the countertop,” she explains, anticipating his interjection this time. “The stone of the countertop sucks all the heat out and makes it very difficult for the dough to rise.”

“ Ah. Yes. Of course,” he replies, nodding, watching with fascination as she begins kneading the dough. “May I try?”

“ Knock yourself out ,” she answers, patting the dough back into a nice mound.

Crane rolls up his sleeves and steps over while Abbie moves aside. He smashes the dough with his hands, just sort of randomly pushing and squeezing.

“ Whoa, whoa, whoa, Crane!” Abbie exclaims, stopping him. “You don’t need to kill it.”

His hands still. “What am I doing wrong?”

“ Weren’t you watching me?” she asks.

He was, but clearly he was paying attention to  _ her _ , not what she was  _ doing. _ “Apparently I was not watching closely enough.” He releases his death grip on the dough.

She sighs and moves back over. “Look: push away, then pull back and turn. Push away, then pull back and turn.” She does the motion a few more times.

“ I believe I have it,” he declares.

She sprinkles a little more flour on the dough and board, then allows him to return. She watches as he slowly mimics what he saw her doing. After a few slow tries, he begins to find a rhythm, his massive hands and lean, muscular forearms working the dough on the board.

Abbie swallows and turns away, moving over a low cabinet, where she pulls out a large pot.  _ I do not want to be bagel dough. I do not want to be bagel dough. _ She turns on the hot water and begins filling the pot, and glances back over at him.  _ I do want to be bagel dough. Damn it all. _

“ That’s good, Crane,” she manages to say, not sure if she’s stopping him because the dough is done or if  _ she  _ is done.

“ That was quite enjoyable,” he declares, brushing his hands together. “What next?” he asks, looking at the recipe. “Ah.” He pulls a tea towel out of a drawer and covers the dough. Then he sets the timer for 15 minutes. “You did not stop me.”

“ Nope. You’re good,” she says, measuring a tablespoon of sugar into the pot of water, which is now on the stove.

“ What is the purpose of the water and sugar?” he asks.

“ You know how bagels have that nice chewy outside?” He nods. “That’s what the water does. Something about gelatinizing the starches or something. Not quite sure what the point of the sugar is. Probably something chemical,” she adds with a shrug.

“ Fascinating,” he replies. “What do we do while we wait for the dough to rest?”

“ Wash dishes,” she declares.

Once they finish cleaning up, Crane goes to the laptop and opens it.

“What are you doing?”

“I am Google searching the purpose of boiling the bagels,” he answers.

“Okay then,” Abbie remarks, then wanders away. When she returns five minutes later, he is watching YouTube videos of people kneading dough. She walks away again.

xXx

Fifteen minutes later, Abbie pulls a large butcher knife out of a drawer.

“Surely the dough won’t put up that much of a fight,” Crane comments.

“I like using this because it’s big. It’s not even very sharp anymore,” she explains, then demonstrates by lightly pressing her thumb against the blade. “It’s old and basically not good for anything but dividing dough.”

“Indeed,” he declares with a nod. He looks down at the recipe again. “It says we are to divide the dough into 12 pieces, and—oh.” He stops reading when he sees that Abbie already has the dough divided into thirds and is working on splitting each third in half. “How do you know they are even?”

“I guess,” she says, raising an eyebrow at him. “They don’t have to be exact; this ain’t a bakery.”

“Hmm.” He reaches down and begins arranging the balls of dough on the board into three neat rows of four.

“Couldn’t handle it, huh?” she asks. When she’s made these in the past, she has arranged them just as he has done, but this time she intentionally left them sort of haphazard, just to see what he would do.

“How do we shape them?” he asks, ignoring her question. He moves to read the instructions again.

“Like this.” Abbie picks up a ball and rolls it between her palms to smooth it a bit. Then she flattens it into a disc and pokes her thumb through the middle.

“Hmm,” Crane declares. “Would it not be simpler to roll it into a cylinder and connect the ends?”

“They don’t stick very well,” she answers, picking up another piece of dough. “Go on, try one.”

He picks up a dough ball and goes about shaping it into a bagel, keenly aware of Abbie’s eyes on him. Mischief strikes him, and after he pokes his thumb through the center of the disc, he spins the dough around his finger like a hula hoop.

Abbie laughs, exclaiming, “Crane!”

“Whoop!” The bagel almost launches itself from his finger, but he catches it in time, laughing. He sets it on the board. “Oh dear. The hole is rather large on that one.”

“It’ll be fine,” she reassures him, patting his arm and leaving a light dusting of flour there.

They finish shaping the rest, cover, and set the timer again.

“What do we do now?” Crane asks.

“Preheat the oven and hope they rise enough in 20 minutes,” Abbie answers, walking to the oven.

“Might they not?”

“They might not,” she says, washing her hands. He follows suit, then regards her a moment.

“What then?” he asks.

“We wait longer,” she tells him with a shrug.

xXx

The timer goes off, interrupting the chess game they started to pass the time.

“If you need to stay and continue pondering your move… no, wait a minute, I don’t trust you. You gotta come,” Abbie says, standing and plucking his sleeve.

“I beg your pardon! I do not cheat!” Crane protests, but obediently follows her to the kitchen. “But I do not want to miss this part.”

She uncovers the bagels. They are plump and smooth and ready to go. “Excellent,” she says. She takes the lid off of the pot of water that has been simmering and retrieves a wire straining spoon from a drawer.

“Seven minutes,” he declares.

“Six,” she counters, grinning up at him. “Makes the timing easier, since they need to be flipped halfway through.” She starts picking up bagels and plopping them in the water, smiling when they bob to the surface. Once she has half of them in, she sets the timer for three minutes.

“Very well,” he sighs, clearly resigned to comply with whatever her wishes are.

As always.

He hovers, leaning over her shoulder, watching as the bagels float on the surface of the simmering water. It’s really not very exciting, but he will take any opportunity to be close to her. He slowly blinks as this realization dawns on him, but instead of making him back away, he turns his face just slightly, closing his eyes and quietly inhaling the intoxicating scent of her hair, telling himself he’s not being creepy.

“Hey,” she says, nudging him, and he startles. “Can you get two cookie sheets and some parchment paper?”

“Hmm? Oh. Of course,” he answers, moving to retrieve the items.

She slowly takes a deep breath, then exhales. She needed to get him away from her for a minute. Between the hot stove in front of her and…  _him_ (she refuses to consider the possibility that he is hot) behind her, she was beginning to feel a little lightheaded. So much so that she had to stop herself from pressing her rear back against him.

The timer goes off, making her jump. She silences it, then begins flipping the bagels with her strainer.

Crane materializes behind her to watch as Abbie pokes the strainer against one side of each bagel, causing it to turn over. “They’ve grown more,” he comments, noting there is almost no room left between the bagels now.

“Yep,” she agrees. “You can do the next six.”

“Excellent,” he replies. She can hear the smile in his voice.

xXx

They return to their chess game while the bagels bake, Crane characteristically taking his time, thoughtfully pondering each nuance and implication of every possible move, his long fingers twitching even as they remain their hold on his chosen piece, loath to release it until he is absolutely certain.

The timer goes off just when it is Abbie’s turn. She stands, almost carelessly moves her rook, then goes to the kitchen, leaving Crane flummoxed and sputtering.

He stares at the board for ten more seconds, then gets up and goes to the kitchen.

“Oh, those look lovely,” he declares, again hovering behind her, looming over her. He reaches over to try to pick one up and she smacks his hand.

“Too hot yet!” she scolds, laughing. “You know better.” She turns around, but he doesn’t back away, and she has to tilt her head back to look up at him. “They’ll probably be okay by the time you make your next move,” she says.

“Hmm?” he absently asks.

“The chess game, Mr. Eidetic Memory?” she prompts.

“Oh. Right. Chess,” he replies. His fingers fidget a moment and he shoves them behind his back before spinning on his heel and returning to the dining room and their game.

Abbie follows a moment later with two beers, setting one beside Crane while he ponders the board.

She watches as he absently reaches out for his bottle without looking, watching his fingers wrap around the bottle, then pause, tapping against the dark brown glass for a moment before lifting it to his lips.

She watches him lick the moisture from the beer off of his upper lip, then watches him set the bottle back down.

Then she quickly lifts her own bottle and takes a long drink, willing her eyes to look elsewhere.  _Damn it, Mills._

When she sets her bottle down, she is surprised to see him looking at her instead of the board. “What?” she asks.

“I’ve played my turn,” he says, covering the fact that he was blatantly staring at her elegant neck with its flawless skin while she drank.

“Where?” she asks, furrowing her brows as she looks at the board.

He reaches out and touches the piece he moved with his fingertips.

“That was fast,” she declares. Then she takes three seconds to think, moves a piece, and says, “Checkmate.”

“What?” he exclaims, leaning over the board while she stands, laughing, and goes to the kitchen. “Curse you, Lieutenant!” he calls. Her answering cackle floats out to him from the adjoining room and he rises to join her. “Have they sufficiently cooled?” he asks.

“Yep,” she says, already cutting one in half. “We’ll split this one,” she adds. “It’s getting close to suppertime, and you promised me we’d have Thai food.”

“Of course. We do not wish to ruin your appetite,” he agrees, going to the fridge for some cream cheese.

“Especially not when there’s peanut sauce involved,” she says. “Do you like the top or bottom?”

“I beg your pardon,” he returns, whirling around, cream cheese in hand. She shows him the two halves of the bagel, and her lips are pressed tightly together. He thinks she may actually be blushing, too. “Oh. I… have no preference,” he awkwardly answers. “I shall take whatever you wish to give me.”

Abbie merely blinks a few times, then hands Crane the bottom half before saying, “I like the top.”

If their fingers brush when he takes the bagel from her, surely it is accidental.

They lean over the kitchen island, spreading cream cheese on their bagel halves, each suddenly, inexplicably,  _keenly_ aware of the other. Neither seems to know what to say, so they both simply bite into their snack.

Then Crane groans, and Abbie almost drops her bagel.  _Damn him._ She looks up and sees he has cream cheese in his mustache. Without thinking, she reaches up to wipe it off.

He catches her hand in his, but instead of bushing it aside as he has done before, he sucks the bit of cream cheese off of her thumb, then kisses it. When she doesn’t protest, he kisses the tips of her other fingers as well, his eyes locked on hers the entire time.

“Why aren’t you stopping me?” he softly asks, kissing her palm now. Her fingers curl into his beard and his heart leaps.

“I don’t want to stop you,” she whispers, then sets her bagel half down. She takes his half out of his hand and lifts it to his lips, her other hand still resting on his cheek.

He obediently takes a bite, trying to be neat, but she pushes the bagel towards him at the last minute.

“Lieutenant!” he exclaims, but his protest dies as he sees her dear face coming closer. He even leans down to meet her, and is rewarded with the touch of her soft lips on his, the lightest flick of her sweet tongue as she licks the cream cheese from his upper lip.

He plucks the bagel from her hand and sets it on the counter beside hers so he can fully pull her into his arms. “Abbie, I…”

“Shh,” she says, lifting up on tiptoe. “Just shut up for once,” she whispers, her fingers threading into his hair.

As always, he heeds her words, dropping his head and kissing her fully, deeply, the way he has yearned for longer than he can remember.

When he finally lifts his head, he gazes down into her beautiful brown eyes and says, “We should bake more often.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> apologies if there is too much baking detail... I can't help it


	31. Power and Dishonesty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tumblr ask meme prompt from kurory-zombie-society

“It was all a ploy.” Abbie’s voice drifts through the darkness, startling the still-awake Crane as he lies in bed.

“Lieutenant?” he automatically answers, though there is no one else it would be. “Forgive me,” he regroups, pushing himself up on his elbows. “What was a ploy?”

She plunks down on his bed and starts removing her boots. “Danny. He’s full of shit.”

Crane knows better than to say “I told you so.” So he simply waits.

“I was willing to give him – us – another chance. You know, as…?” She sees the silhouette of his head nodding in the dark, so she moves on, not totally comfortable going down this road with him, knowing his feelings about her boss. “But I just caught him red-handed.”

“Doing?”

“Talking to someone… a higher-up he refused to identify. About me. Referring to me as an ‘asset’ and telling him he was ‘following orders as discussed’ about…” she trails off, shaking her head.

“About?” Crane prompts.

“I don’t know. That’s when he saw me and discovered I’d heard everything. And then he wouldn’t tell me the truth. Dishonest bastard,” she grumbles, moving further onto Crane’s bed, sitting cross-legged atop his comforter.

“Contemptible lout,” he agrees. “This does not bode well, Abbie.”

“I know,” she sighs, running her hand over her face. “I sent a message to the district superintendent. I want answers, and I want Daniel Reynolds reassigned as far away from me as possible, where he can feel free to climb the ladder of power _without_ using me as a rung.” She flops back on the bed, lying down beside him.

“Lieutenant, what are you—”

She rolls towards him, close enough now that he can see the fatigue on her face. “I just want… I need to be near someone I know I can trust. Someone who doesn’t lie to me,” she quietly says, her eyes closing.

He stares at her face for a moment, torn between the worlds of his past and present. When he realizes she is staring back at him, he swallows and asks, “Would you like to move beneath the blankets or will you not be staying long?”

Her small, sweet smile is all the answer he needs.


	32. Sin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tumblr ask meme prompt from nikidanger

Abbie actually rolled her eyes when they figured out that the fourth tribulation was going to take them through the seven deadly sins. “What a fucking cliché,” she had said, but deep down, she was worried.

She didn’t think they’d survive having to deal with Lust.

Turns out, they didn’t even have to get that far.

Sloth and Greed were fairly easily dealt with.

Pride was almost Crane’s downfall (to no one’s surprise).

But it was Anger that makes them face their truths. Anger that finds them in their _home_ of all places, seeping in through the cracks of the doors and windows, permeating the quiet evening.

“Will you stop that?” Abbie snaps.

“Stop _what_?” Crane peevishly replies.

“You’re _watching_ me. I’m fine, I’ve been telling you for months,” she says. Deep down, she’s not sure where this is coming from.

He raises his finger and she almost lunges to bite the damn thing off. “First, I was doing no such thing. And secondly,” he raises his middle finger to join the first, “you haven’t been ‘fine’ since you returned from your first journey to the Catacombs. Your little jaunt into Pandora’s box has only worsened your condition and you are too busy hiding behind your bloody _walls_ and living in sodding _denial_ to deal with it!” He is yelling by the end of his rant, and really doesn’t know why.

She stands, throwing her book down on the table. It flops to the floor, landing on its pages. “Fuck you,” she spits. “You and that fucking high horse you constantly ride around on, thinking you are better than everyone when really you’re just a scared little boy who doesn’t know how to deal with his feelings so he just represses them!” He opens his mouth and she yells, “Don’t you dare correct my grammar, you fucking _pedant!_ ”

He stands, facing her down. “How _dare_ you lecture me on dealing with feelings, _Miss Mills_ ,” he hisses, stalking closer to her until he is invading her personal space, hovering over her. “You wouldn’t acknowledge an honest emotion within yourself if it was…” He trails off, staring down at her face as she angrily glares up at him. Her eyes are fiery, lips parted. “Fuck,” he curses, then crashes his lips against hers, kissing her with punishing force.

Abbie squeaks, then growls. She shoves Crane’s chest with both hands, pushing him away. He staggers back only slightly, but is still close enough for her to reach up and slap.

“Shit,” she mutters, then bodily yanks him back down by his shirt and kisses him so hard their teeth painfully collide. They both grunt in pain, but when her hand boldly gropes the front of his trousers until she finds his growing erection, he groans and clamps one hand over her breast. In for the night, she isn’t wearing a bra, and he feels her nipple tighten under his palm.

His feet are moving, walking them to an empty wall in the living room, and she doesn’t even notice until she feels the wall behind her back. He tears his lips away from hers for a moment and looks down at her, knowing he looks as wrecked as she does. He can still feel the anger simmering in his chest, hot and tight and _needy._ He drops to his knees and yanks her yoga pants down to her ankles, pulling her panties with them.

She lifts her feet out of them and kicks them aside as if she was mad at them, too. He stands again and she impatiently scrabbles at his buttons, even pulling one completely free in her angry haste to open the ridiculous garment. “Why won’t you wear normal pants?” she complains, scowling up at him.

He says nothing, simply bending his knees and lifting her, his large hands gripping her backside as she wraps her legs around him.

He impales her on his cock with very little preamble, and she shouts out, digging her short nails into his shoulders. He hisses, but is undeterred, forcefully thrusting into her as he braces her against the wall.

“What… were you saying… about being… repressed?” he grunts through gritted teeth as he moves, his forehead resting against hers. “Does _this_ ,” he drives in with extra force to punctuate his speech, “feel like a man… who doesn’t know… how he feels?”

“Fuck you,” she replies, her voice forceful yet breathy. “Fuck… you and… ohhhhh… fuck me…” She is hanging on for what feels like dear life now, and, unable to handle the intimacy of his eyes boring into hers, she drops her head back against the wall.

He sears biting kisses into her neck, leaving marks, wanting to mark her as his. “Let go, Abbie,” he rumbles, his voice dark. “Don’t… prove me right… you’re… better than that.” He manages to catch her lips in a deep kiss, vaguely realizing that the more he kisses her, the more his anger fades. It’s fading slowly, but it’s definitely fading. “Let… me… _in,_ ” he demands.

“God, I hate you sometimes,” she gasps, forcing herself to open her eyes and meet his insistent gaze. “I hate how you can… oh, God, yes… see right into… mmm…”

“Come on,” he growls, his hips still snapping into her.

“You motherfu—oh… oh, Crane!” Abbie’s whole body tightens around him as she climaxes, her fingers painfully fisting in his hair.

As if he was waiting for her, he thrusts just a few more times, then surges into her, pressing her against the wall, his face tucked against her neck. He shudders, exhales a held breath, then slumps, still holding her in his arms.

“Ichabod.” Her voice is quieter now, almost gentle. “I don’t hate you.”

“I know,” he answers, still clinging to her. “I know, Abbie.” He presses his lips to her neck.

“I could never hate you,” she confesses. “In fact, I…”

He tightens his hold on her, knowing if he lets her escape or even allows her to see his face, she’ll likely chicken out and never finish her sentence. “Say it, Lieutenant. Please,” he whispers against her skin.

“I love you.”

He exhales and finally, slowly, releases her, helping her back down to her feet. “I love you most ardently, Abigail,” he replies. “And I am heartily sorry for my earlier angry words. I—”

She puts her fingers over his lips. “No. You were right. Even if it was this stupid tribulation acting up, which I’m pretty sure it was, you were still right.”

“As were you,” he admits, kissing her forehead.

“Let’s go upstairs and do this properly before Envy decides to strike,” she says, taking his hand and leading him up to her room.


	33. Sleepy Beauty

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by like-bunnies' Sleeping Beauty Crane moodboard
> 
> http://like-bunnies.tumblr.com/post/160658928026/sleeping-beauty-crane-waiting-for-loves-first

They both screamed when they happened upon the body on the bed, in the top floor of what they _thought_ was an abandoned mansion.

Jenny clutched her sister’s arm.  “Abbie... that’s a...”

“A guy,” Abbie dumbly finishes, taking a step closer.  “A man.”

“Darn right he is,” Jenny agrees, walking right up to the bed and looking down at him.  “Is he dead?”

Abbie steps up beside her sister.  “If so, he’s pretty freshly dead,” she answers.

“Waste of a perfectly good white boy,” Jenny laments, slowly shaking her head.  “Look at those hands.  Damn.  I bet he could _do_ things to a woman when he was alive.”

“Jenny!” Abbie exclaims.  “Don’t be crass; he’s dead!”  Though she has to admit her sister is right.  He is - was - very handsome.

“Well he won’t be offended then, will he?” Jenny reasons.

They stare at him for a long moment.  “Dare you to touch him,” Abbie says.

“Pssh.  No sweat.”  Jenny reaches out with a finger and pokes his shoulder.

“Lame,” Abbie declares.

So Jenny touches his face instead.  “There.  Happy now?”  Abbie shrugs.  “Fine then.  I dare you to kiss him.”

“What?”

“I dare you.  To _kiss_ him.  I _double_ dare you,” Jenny repeats, crossing her arms over her chest.

Abbie steps closer, squaring her shoulders, refusing to be bullied by her younger sister.  “Fine.”

“On the lips.”

“Jenny, that’s gross!”

Jenny merely raises an eyebrow.

“Fine, but I get to wear that burgundy dress to the party this weekend then,” Abbie bargains.

“Done.  Want my Chapstick?” Jenny says, producing the little tube of lip balm from her pocket and waving it around.

Abbie rolls her eyes, then leans over the bed.  _I’m about to kiss a strange dead man._   She takes a deep breath, holds it, and then quickly pecks the strangely-pink lips of the dead man.

“There,” she says, turning towards her sister.  “Should we... you know... call the cops or something?”

“Abbie...”

“Probably shouldn’t tell them that we--”

“ABBIE!” Jenny repeats, eyes wide.

A deep groan behind her makes Abbie jump.  She turns around and sees the dead man blinking in confusion, leaning up on his elbows.  He slowly turns his cerulean gaze on the Mills sisters, his eyes raking up and down their forms, lingering longer on Abbie.

“Hello?” Jenny quietly says.

“Thank you,” he gasps, his throat obviously dry.  “I...” he starts, then stops, not knowing what to say.

“What is going on here?  Is this some sort of trick?  Hidden camera show or something?” Abbie asks.

The man sits up, groaning again, and runs his fingers through his shoulder-length hair.  He looks again at the sisters.  “Hidden what?  How long have I been... asleep?”

“Um... when did you go to bed?” Jenny asks.

“I was cursed by a vengeful witch, if you must know,” he says rather haughtily.  “And it was 1781.”

“Oh shit, have we got news for you,” Jenny replies, chuckling.

“Oh dear.  I assume by your garments, manner of speaking, and... skin color... that it is no longer 1781...”

“It’s 2017,” Abbie supplies, suddenly feeling for the strange man.  She somehow instinctively knows he is telling the truth and not a crazy person.  “I’m Abbie Mills and this is my sister Jenny.”

He attempts to stand, but his legs won’t hold him and he begins to topple.  Abbie and Jenny grab him by the elbows, steadying him and helping him to sit on the bed once more.  “My name is Ichabod Crane,” he says.  “And I am very pleased to make your acquaintance.”

“Um, is this your house?” Jenny asks.

“It was,” he answers, looking around.  “I assume it still is, judging by the state of it.”  Then he looks back and forth between them and asks, “If I may be so bold: which one of you kissed me?”

“Um, I did,” Abbie answers.  “I--”

He takes Abbie’s hand and lifts it to his lips, kissing it.  “I am deeply indebted to you, Miss Mills.  Please accept my most humble thanks.  I am now and forever shall be at your service, in any way you will have me.”

Abbie blinks in surprise while Jenny chokes as she tries to stifle her laughter.


	34. Always on My Mind

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For Ichabbie Summer
> 
> The content has nothing to do with the song of the same name.

“You’re home early,” Abbie says, looking up from her tablet.  She’s sitting up in bed and is a bit surprised to find him not only home so early, but standing in the doorway of her bedroom.  He was supposed to be out with Zoe, to dinner and then to watch the fireworks for the Fourth of July.  She kind of didn’t expect to see him until morning.  
  
“Yes,” Crane answers, hovering like he wishes to say more.  He allows his eyes to linger on her. Dressed in a tank top with a silk scarf binding her hair, she still looks like a goddess in repose, ensconced in her large bed, plush comforter covering her lower half.  
  
“Weren’t you going to see the fireworks?” she asks.

“Perhaps it escaped your attention that it is raining,” he answers, the corner of his lips turning up slightly.  He still lingers, his fingers twitching at his sides.

“Um, come in,” she says, flipping her tablet closed, deciding to abandon her previous line of questioning.  He takes an uncertain step inside. “Something’s on your mind.”

“Something has been on my mind for a while,” he admits after a moment’s pause.  “Especially since you returned.”

She smiles a little and indicates he should sit.  He hesitates, then perches on the edge of the bed. “I’m okay, Crane,” she says.  “Well, I’m getting better every day, thanks you you,” she amends, reaching out and patting his hand.

He turns his hand under hers and wraps his long fingers around it.  She gives him an answering squeeze.

“You are more than ‘okay’, Lieutenant,” Crane says after another long pause.  His voice is so soft that it is almost a whisper.  “You are magnificent.”

Her brows furrow.  “Crane, what are you…?”

Emboldened by some unknown force, he scoots closer, now holding her hand between both of his.  “It is not my wish to overwhelm you, especially now, but I fear if I continue to hold my tongue, it will come bursting out of me at an even more inopportune moment,” he says, his voice growing in intensity. “Abbie… you are… that is to say… I am…”

Her expression changes from confused, to understanding, to amused.  “Ichabod Crane, at a loss for words,” she says, the telltale wobble in her stomach triggering her knee-jerk reaction to deflect and hastily, automatically, reinforce her walls.

Wounded but not surprised by her jest, he deflates, shrinking slightly.  “You do not feel the same,” he concludes.  “I… expected as much,” he says, poorly attempting to keep his disappointment from showing.  He releases her hand, but she tightens her grip, her small hand stronger than it appears.  He looks up at her, surprised.  “Abbie?”

“I interrupted you before,” she whispers.  Her beautiful eyes are wide, and he can see the fear in them.  She swallows, then looks down, and he knows she is trying to keep that fear at bay.

“I’m sorry.  Please continue.  You are…?”

“I think you know what I was about to say,” he answers, his fingers softly caressing her hand. “And I think it frightens you.”

“It does,” she agrees.  “But that doesn’t mean I don’t feel…”

Crane lifts her hand to his lips, kissing her knuckles.  When she finally smiles again, he says, “Grace Abigail Mills, I live and die for your smile.  For your smallest favor.”  Gathering more courage again, he continues.  “You are my hope, my everything.  I thought I had known love before, but it was a pale mockery compared to what I feel for you.  I… I cannot even fathom living in this world without your friendship, your guidance; even your mere presence is a boon of which I am not deserving.  Even if you do not feel as I do, just being able to be with you, enjoy your company, is en—”

She suddenly leans forward and places her fingertips on his lips, stopping his words.  “Crane, if you don’t shut up and kiss me, I’m going to—”

He stops her lips with his, enjoying the small squeak of surprise she makes just before she melts into him.  Her fingers slide up into his hair, and he thinks he may die from the sheer joy of it.


	35. Pedal to the Metal

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There was a request for some "happy smut" for Ichabbie on Twitter, so...

Abbie jogs down the stairs, the skirt of her sundress swishing just above her knees, affording a rather intriguing and nearly scandalous view to Crane, gazing up at her from the first floor.

He clears his throat, willing his body to mind its manners.  “Lieutenant, you look beautiful,” he says, offering his hand once she is close enough.

She smiles, still not completely accustomed to his frequent praise.  When she returned from the depths of Pandora’s Box (“But my name isn’t Hope,” she had deflected with a joke, too overcome to deal with the reality of what had happened to her), Crane hugged her so fiercely and kissed her so exuberantly that he was no longer able to deny his true feelings for her any longer.  And neither was she.

Since then, she and Crane have settled into a tentative romance that has progressed at a snail’s pace.

Until the hot summer day Abbie Mills came flouncing down the stairs in a short floral sundress exposing a great deal more of her flawless skin than Ichabod Crane is accustomed to seeing.

He maintains his composure, but only just, mentally castigating himself for being such a weak-willed cliché of a man to nearly succumb to the temptations set before him.

He knows better.  He knows that his Lieutenant dresses only to please herself, and that wearing provocative garments is neither invitation nor consent.

He fancies himself an intellectual, a learned, sophisticated gentleman.  He fancies himself above the “ordinary man”.

He fancies Abbie in that dress a great deal.

“Crane?”  Her musical voice draws him from his thoughts.  “Are we going to the park or what?”

He gazes down at her, cursing his height because it allows him to very clearly see down into her cleavage.  “What,” he decides, reaching for her.

She squeaks in surprise when his mouth crashes down over hers with a passion she knows he has been keeping carefully in check for weeks now.

He kisses her with abandon, letting the animal out of its cage, knowing only she can tame the beast inside.

“Ichab—”  Abbie manages to gasp half of his name before her mouth is invaded again.  She becomes vaguely aware of her feet moving as he propels them further into the house.

Crane tears his lips from hers, then spins her so she is facing away from him, moving his hand up her thigh and under her dress.

“You’re just going from zero to sixty in no time flat, aren’t you?” she breathily asks, feeling wet heat surge between her legs.

“It is this damned dress,” he growls, sliding his hand up her back, pushing her forward so she is bent over the dining room table.  “This damned dress and your sinful skin.”  He leans over her and kisses her spine above the back of her dress.

“So this is all my fault?” she asks, her voice breathy, but steady.  When she feels the hem of her dress lifted and his long fingers trailing over her ass, she gasps and curses.

“I assure you, Lieutenant, the blame lies solely with me,” he answers, his eyes glued to the roundness of her posterior not covered at all by the meager thong panties.  “For I am but a mere mortal, not equipped to deal with an otherworldly being such as yourself,” he adds, sliding his index fingers under the waistband of her underwear and slowly drawing it down.

She yelps when she feels his teeth graze her ass cheek in a lightly biting kiss.

“Aren’t you the one who came back from the dead though?” she counters, rallying her senses enough to banter.  She hears the rustling of fabric behind her and turns her head to see him opening his trousers.

“I had assistance,” he replies.  He wraps his hand around his cock and almost absentmindedly strokes it a few times.

Abbie’s eyes widen at the sight.  She licks her lips and almost gets up from the table to touch him, to taste him.  She generally never really wants to give a blowjob, but she finds herself fighting the urge to turn around and drop to her knees.

Crane sees her licking her lips and leans over her once more, catching her chin with his hand and deeply kissing her, pressing his groin against her ass until she moans into his mouth.

Then he is gone again.

Until she feels his fingers gently slide between her folds.

“Unh…”

“You are so hot and wet for me,” he purrs, finding her clit and slowly, torturously circling it.

“Fuck,” she exhales.

She moans again when she feels the blunt head of his cock beginning to press into her.  He pushes forward just a bit, entering her with little more than a few inches.

“What are you…?” she asks in a whisper.  It’s all she can manage with him behind her, slowly and shallowly fucking her.  “Ohhh…”

He continues, holding back, torturing them both this way.  It doesn’t feel like anything she’s ever experienced before, and she has to grab the far edge of the table, desperate for an anchor.

When she whimpers with each shallow thrust, he pulls out completely.

“Crane!” she yells, nearly ready to beg.

He pushes back into her again, this time burying himself to the hilt.

“Oh God!” Abbie cries out, her fingers tightening on the table’s edge.

He thrusts deeply three times, then backs off again to torment her some more.

“Crane, you basTARD!”  Her complaint becomes a shout when he pushes completely into her again.  “Oh, fuck…” she gasps.  She fees like he’s very nearly splitting her in half right now, but all she wants is to beg him for more.

He leans forward, reaching down to stroke her clit with his fingers while he drives into her. “Come with me, Abbie,” he rumbles, his voice more seductive than she’s ever heard it.

“Oh…”  Her voice warbles and she loses her grip on the table.  Her hands scrabble against the smooth wood as she feels her body obeying his command.  She comes with a shouted curse, and is only vaguely aware of his fingers digging into her hip and his body tensing behind her.

He groans low and long, his hips locked forward, his shaft pulsing inside of her.  “Oh, my dearest heart,” he exhales, slumping over her.

A few quiet moments later, he presses a kiss to her spine, then straightens up and gently withdraws from her.

She sighs and slowly straightens up.  “Damn, Crane,” she says, looking up at him, watching as he tucks himself back into his trousers.  She glances around, looking for her panties, but doesn’t see them anywhere.

“Was it not to your liking?” he asks, reaching up to caress her cheek.

She blinks.  “Did you seriously just ask me that?”  He has the decency to blush, and she says, “I guess I wasn’t expecting our first time together to be like… that.”

He takes her hand in his and kisses it.  “Please forgive my… rough treatment of y—”

“Stop,” she says, holding up her free hand.  She huffs a small laugh and says, “You just blew my back out over the dining room table and you’re apologizing?  God, that was… Damn.”

He moves closer.  Smirking as he looms over her, he says, “I merely wished to ensure you were well and thoroughly pleased, because if you weren’t,” he bends down and places a sucking kiss on the side of her neck, “I would endeavor to try once more to bring you to the pinnacle of ecstasy in another way.”

“Is that so?” she asks, her voice little more than a breath.

“And if I still did not succeed,” he continues, his lips skimming her skin while his hands reach out and begin wandering, “I would try again… and again… and again… until you beg for mercy.”

Abbie’s head is reeling.  Where has he been keeping this side hidden?  “The park really isn’t that great,” she finally says.  Then she grabs a fistful of his shirt and pulls, heading for the stairs. “What did you do with my panties?” she asks.

He eagerly follows, yanking his feet out of his boots on the way.  “They are no longer yours,” he answers, then bends down and lifts her, slinging her over his shoulder before climbing the stairs to her room.

He proves he is a man of his word.


	36. Caramel Apples and Crypts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For Ichabbie Halloween 2017

Ichabod Crane enters the ballroom later than he would have liked, but was detained by the host, his friend Abraham Van Brunt, before he could ascend to the third floor of Bram’s ancient estate. By the time he strode through the doors, most of the guests had already arrived and the party was well under way.

He straightens his jacket and takes two steps into the large room before he is accosted by a familiar yet unwelcome voice.

“There you are!”

“Miss Corinth. Hello,” Ichabod greets with significantly less enthusiasm.

“You look so dashing,” Zoe Corinth says, reaching out to lightly touch the embroidered waistcoat. Crane tries not to stiffen at her touch, but he must not be terribly successful for the way she hastily withdraws her hand.

He clears his throat. “Thank you. You look…” he pauses, assessing her strange costume. “And who are you this evening?”

“Betsy Ross, silly,” she answers, posing this way and that. She even produces a little American flag on a stick from somewhere and waves it a little.

He continues to stare, dumbfounded, at her exceedingly short ruffled skirt that reveals a great deal of her legs, which are covered in stockings, but only to just above the knee. “Indeed,” he finally answers, biting his tongue so as not to inform her that Betsy Ross was a very proper lady – a Quaker, in fact – and would never in a million lifetimes wear an outfit such as that. The only thing Miss Corinth is wearing that is even remotely close to accurate is the white cotton mob cap, and it does her no favors at all. “If you will excuse me,” he says, wishing to extract himself from her clutches as quickly as possible.

“I’ll see you later,” she chirps, and he responds with a noncommittal wave.

Crane sighs heavily, straightens his shoulders, and briefly surveys the crowd in search of a familiar face as he walks away. He spies Joe Corbin and Frank Irving, two men he has met briefly in the past. Having been impressed with both gentlemen, he heads in their direction, hoping to further his friendship with them.

As he gets closer, he notices they are talking with two women he has not yet had the pleasure of meeting. The one he can fully see is very pretty and seems to be dressed as some sort of Royal Canadian Mounted Police officer in a skirt. But he cannot get a good look at the other, shorter woman. All he can see is a riot of hair and a hint of plaid.

Frank says something that makes the shorter woman laugh. She throws her head back, and a joyous, bell-like sound erupts from her. Crane can see her face in profile, and that small glimpse causes him to forget to breathe for a moment. Twinkling eyes, perfect teeth, full lips. Beautiful. He continues towards the group, now intensely curious about this woman.

He slows as he approaches. He remembers his initial purpose, but doesn’t wish to interrupt. He politely stands a short distance away, his hands clasped behind his back.

“Ichabod Crane!” Frank Irving booms a moment later, lifting his hand to point at him, then wave him over. Irving is dressed in all black. He appears to have long appendages sticking out of his sides and has a mask dangling from his other hand.

Crane smiles, happy to have been recognized, and steps forward. “Captain Irving, I am so pleased to see you once again,” he greets, extending his hand to shake. “May I ask about your… unique costume?”

“Of course,” Irving says, donning his mask, which is clearly of West African design. “Does this help?”

Crane looks him over, then the lightbulb goes on. “Why, Anansi, as I live and breathe,” he dramatically declares. Frank takes the mask off again, beaming, pleased someone understood his costume. “What an original idea. It is brilliant.”

“Thanks, man. You’re the first person who’s gotten it. Other than these two,” he says with a laugh, gesturing towards the two women. “Not surprised though, with your big brain.” He pauses for a second, narrowing his eyes, then says, “Wish I could return the favor though.”

“John Adams, at your service,” Crane explains with a deep bow. “And Mr. Corbin, you look… like you have just come from work,” he teases.

Joe shrugs, looking down at his hospital scrubs. “I’m being lazy, what can I say? I did add some fake blood and gore though.”

“I was _just_ saying that he really could have been a whole lot more creative with it,” the young lady dressed as the Mountie chimes in. “Like, _really_ go overboard with the gore. Or accessorize with a snake and a witch’s hat and say you’re a witch doctor.”

Crane laughs. “Very clever,” he pronounces.

“Oh, sorry,” Frank suddenly remembers. “Crane, this is Jenny and Abbie Mills. Ladies, this is Dr. Ichabod Crane. He’s the new History professor at the university. Crane, Jenny works with your buddy Van Brunt at the Counseling Center, and Abbie is a Detective at the station.”

“Nice to meet you,” Jenny says, offering her hand. “You must know Bram from the Old Country, huh?”

“Um, yes, we were schoolmates 200 years ago,” Crane answers with a chuckle, shaking her hand.

“Hi,” Abbie says, holding her hand out.

Crane finally gets a good look at her. Even if she wasn’t dressed in sinfully short cut-off jeans and a push-up bra, she would still be the most beautiful woman he has ever seen. “Miss Beyoncé, it is an honor,” he greets, smiling at her. Her hand is warm and soft in his, and feels very small. He notices then that she is probably a good foot shorter than he is. He also notices that she has the eyes and lips of a princess from a Disney movie and finds himself wondering how she can be real.

“Not as honored as I am to meet the second president of the United States,” she answers, smiling at him. Her voice is light and musical, and he becomes certain that she possesses an equally lovely singing voice.

His heart skips a beat and he realizes he is still holding her hand. He awkwardly clears his throat and releases her hand.

xXx

Abbie Mills is not accustomed to being rendered speechless. But when Frank introduces this tall stranger to them, all she can manage is a lame, “Hi.”

She hopes he hadn’t noticed her staring at him as he chatted with Frank and Joe, but as soon as his figure appeared in her periphery she found she couldn’t take her eyes off of him. Tall and lean, with ramrod-straight posture and a regal bearing, he is an impressive sight. Especially standing there in the most authentic looking period costume she has ever seen, down to the knee-high boots and up to the perfectly-trimmed beard and hair neatly pulled back in a queue. She’s about 99% sure that’s his real hair, too. When he spoke, she felt her knees weaken.

 _Answer him. And be witty, damn it._ “ Not as honored as I am to meet the second president of the United States,” she finds herself saying. _Stupid! Stupid! Stupid!_

When he clears his throat and releases her hand, she figures it’s because she’s made him uncomfortable with her awkward attempt at wit.

But then he chuckles and replies, “Oh, I do not know. I think if we were to take a poll of the general population of the United States, even the world, I believe we would find that more people would like to meet Beyoncé than John Adams. I know I certainly would, and I am a professor of American History.”

Abbie laughs, unconsciously moving closer to him. They soon become so involved in a conversation about recent American History and Beyoncé’s unquestionable influence on modern pop culture that they don’t even notice that Frank has wandered away and Joe and Jenny are simply standing there, looking at the two of them with puzzled expressions on their faces.

xXx

“Come on, we need to powder our noses,” Jenny says, plucking her sister’s sleeve as they sit at the table and nibble hors d’oeurvres.

“We do?” Abbie asks.

“Yes,” Jenny answers. “Don’t miss us too much,” she tells Joe and Crane, blowing Joe a kiss before she tugs her sister away.

Abbie reluctantly lets herself be dragged across the room towards the restroom. She is just about to protest the interruption of her conversation with Crane when Jenny speaks.

“Having a good time?” she asks, looking sideways down at her sister.

“Actually, yes. I’m glad you forced me to come,” Abbie answers. “Dr. Crane is… very nice,” she adds, forcing her voice to stay steady, not wanting to give away how attracted she is to him.

“Mmm, ‘nice’. It’s that what the kids are calling it now?” Jenny asks, her voice dripping with insinuation.

“What?” Abbie innocently asks.

Jenny leans down, close to her sister’s ear. “Tall, dark and British back there has a huge uncircumcised boner for you,” she answers.

“Jenny!”

“Joe thinks so too,” Jenny insists. “Abbie’s gonna get some…” she softly sings as they reach the bathroom, followed by a sharp yelp when Abbie smacks her on the shoulder.

When they return to the ballroom some minutes later, Ichabod has disappeared from their table.

“Bram came over and said there was someone Crane needed to meet,” Joe explains. He looks at Abbie and adds, “He’ll be back.”

“Whatever,” she answers, her voice a little too bright and cheery to be believed.

Joe snorts. “He asked about you while you were gone,” he says.

“That’s nice,” she replies, intentionally not playing their little game.

“He ‘steadfastly refused’ to believe you were single,” Joe continues, attempting a British accent when quoting Crane’s words, causing Jenny to erupt in laughter.

“Hmm,” Abbie nods, biting a deviled egg in half, still playing at being casual.

Then she notices Crane stride back in.

 _Then_ she notices Zoe Corinth damn near throwing herself at him. She groans and turns away.

“What?” Jenny asks, looking over. “Oh.” She watches, not caring if anyone sees her. “Oh God, this is awkward.”

“What?” Abbie echoes, turning.

“He wants to escape. Look at him. And who is she supposed to be anyway?” Jenny asks.

“Betsy Ross,” Joe answers.

“No,” Abbie says. “Betsy Ross wasn’t a… little tart.”

“No, she told me. She’s ‘Sexy Betsy Ross’. Allegedly,” he explains.

“Go rescue him,” Jenny says, nudging her sister with her foot under the table.

“No!” Abbie exclaims, though she really, _really_ wants to.

“Go,” Jenny insists. “She’s trying to make the moves on your man. You need to let her know who’s boss.”

“Who’s Queen,” Joe amends, pointing to Abbie’s necklace.

“He is _not_ my man,” Abbie says, but she is already standing up. “And I cannot believe I am listening to the two of you… children.” With that, she stomps away.

“Don’t walk over like _that_!” Jenny calls, earning her a dirty look. But when Abbie’s walk changes from Police Detective on a Mission to Runway Model Working It, she can only laugh.

xXx

“…an empty seat at my table if you’d like to join us.” Abbie hears the end of Zoe’s invitation as she draws closer.

“Oh, I—”

“Hey, I was wondering where you’d disappeared to,” Abbie conversationally says, sidling up to join them. “Hi, Zoe,” she adds, almost as an afterthought. Zoe gives her a weak smile and a half-wave.

“Ah! I was just on my way back to our table, Abbie,” Crane says, his expression brightening considerably. “I apologize for disappearing on you. Bram pulled me away and then I had to take a call.”

“No problem, Ichabod. Your plate is right where you left it,” she replies.

“Excellent. If you will excuse me, Miss Corinth,” he says.

“Um, of course, Dr. Crane,” she answers, trying not to appear too disappointed. “Nice seeing you, Abbie. I like your costume…” she trails off, and Abbie realizes that Zoe doesn’t know who she’s supposed to be.

“I’m Beyoncé,” she supplies, hopefully hiding her childish glee when Ichabod takes her hand and tucks it into the crook of his elbow. “Nice Betsy Ross costume,” she returns, figuring she should return the compliment. She knows she sounds pretty insincere, but so did Zoe.

“Thank you,” Crane bends down and murmurs to her once they are far enough away. “I fear she has a bit of a schoolgirl crush.”

“She’s a little old for that,” Abbie says. “She’s Jenny’s age. They were in the same graduating class.”

“I am merely giving it a label based on her behavior,” he explains as they approach the buffet table. “Please, return to the table and your food. I was about to get another glass of punch when Bram appeared. Do you need anything?” he asks.

“No, I’m good, thanks,” she answers.

“In that case, I will join you presently,” he replies. Then he takes her hand from his arm and lifts it to his lips.

“Okay,” she replies, his kiss sending a jolt of heat through her. When she turns to head back to her table, she happens to see Zoe frowning at them from across the room.

“Well, I think she got the idea he’s not interested,” Jenny says as soon as Abbie sits.

Abbie purses her lips, then says, “Schadenfreude is an ugly thing.”

“Oh, but it can be _so_ satisfying,” Jenny replies. “And don’t sit there and act like you don’t want to gloat. I know you too well.”

“Okay, it is kind of nice to be on the other side of that situation for once,” she admits, her lips tugging into a smile when she sees Ichabod approaching, champagne flute dangling casually from his long fingers.

xXx

Eating gives over to mingling and dancing, and Crane scarcely leaves Abbie’s side. Once or twice Bram drags him away to meet someone or settle an argument (something for which the professor’s eidetic memory comes in very handy). Occasionally Abbie gets drawn into conversations with other people – she knows a great many of the guests, having lived in the relatively small town of Sleepy Hollow her entire life – or Jenny pulls her away to take part in some harmless random mischief. But the unlikely pair of the tall college professor and the tiny police detective have been nigh inseparable all evening, and both begin secretly wishing for some privacy, away from the crowd.

Abbie wanders out onto one of the small balconies off of the ballroom during one of the times in which Ichabod was away, looking for a few minutes of fresh air and quiet. It is extremely dark outside, the manor being well away from the center of town. She can barely see the garden below, and finds herself thinking that their host should invest in some landscape lights.

“Looking for ghosts?” The deep, British-accented voice only slightly startles her, and she turns around, smiling up at him.

“Should I be?” she returns.

“Well, there is a cemetery down there,” he answers.

“Is there?” Her eyes widen and she turns back around, peering into the darkness. “Where?”

A moment later, she feels the warmth of his body right behind her, and his arm comes up and points. “There.”

“I don’t—”

“Do you see the bench? Beside the large tree,” he prompts, leaning down so his head is level with hers. He takes her hand and points it where his was pointing.

“Oh, okay. I can just see some… pale shapes. Must be the headstones,” she says, turning her face towards his. He is so close that she has to stop herself from nuzzling his beard. Or kissing him.

“Yes,” he whispers, feeling intoxicated by her divine scent invading his senses. He wants to bury his nose in her neck and just breathe her in. Press his mouth to her skin. Lose himself in her lips.

His gaze briefly drops to her lips, entranced by how soft and lush they look. _It would take so little effort to simply lean forward and…_ He closes his eyes and draws away, chiding himself. _You have only just met her._

Her fleeting look of disappointment is not lost on him, however, and then he further chides himself for throwing away what would have been a perfect opportunity.

“Would you…” he begins.

“Yes?”

“Would you like to dance?” he asks. It’s not what he wanted to ask.

“I’d rather go downstairs and check that out,” she says, nodding her head down towards the garden. Then she raises her eyebrows in invitation. “You game?”

“Absolutely,” he answers. Then he impulsively grabs her hand and pulls her back inside to head downstairs and out. He only pauses near the buffet tables. “Snack,” he absently says, snagging a shiny caramel apple.

“Good thing it’s unseasonably warm,” Abbie comments. “This costume isn’t meant for cold weather.”

“Indeed not,” Ichabod agrees, knowing he will relinquish his coat in a second should he even suspect she is slightly cold. He releases her hand to open the door, then escorts her outside.

“So is this a family graveyard, or what?” she asks.

“I believe so. Perhaps we shall find out,” he answers. “Pity we have no torch. Er, that is, flashlight,” he adds, looking up at the overcast sky that would be blocking any sort of moon.

“If I had driven, I would have one in my car, but Jenny drove,” Abbie replies.

“Incidentally, do you know that there is a difference between a graveyard and a cemetery?” Crane asks as they approach the bench.

“Is there one?” she asks, then immediately says, “Of course there is; you wouldn’t have asked if there wasn’t.”

He chuckles and she feels his long, warm fingers tentatively reaching for hers. She bites her lower lip and slips her hand into his. It engulfs hers it is so large, but somehow feels perfect.

“The difference is the proximity to a church,” he explains, thoughtfully pondering the caramel apple still clutched in the hand not holding hers. “A graveyard is located beside a church and is often associated with that church. Literally, a yard where graves are placed.”

“So basically… all graveyards are cemeteries, but not all cemeteries are graveyards?” she asks, looking up at him.

“Indeed,” he pronounces, smiling down at her. They reach the small cemetery, but linger at the edge of it, as though they are wary of entering it on Halloween night. “I am…”

“Yes?”

“I am normally a much better conversationalist than this. I just realized how dreadfully tedious that all was,” he says, gesturing with the caramel apple. “Cemeteries versus graveyards. Who even cares about such things?” he huffs, shaking his head. “You must think me a dreadful bore.”

Abbie releases his hand and moves to stand in front of him, her hands on her hips as she looks up at him. “Okay, first, you are not boring at all. I’ve been talking with you all evening, and if I was bored I would have been looking for an excuse to bail a while ago. And second,” she continues, cutting him off before he has a chance to say anything, “you seriously need to stop waving that caramel apple around and let me have some.” She grabs the hand holding the apple with both of hers, brings it to her face, and takes a bite. “Damn, that’s good,” she moans, her mouth full.

He intently gazes down at her, watching her enjoy her bite of apple. She catches him staring, but instead of looking away, he holds her gaze, wraps his other hand around hers, and guides the apple up to his mouth. He takes a bite, still holding her eyes hostage with his.

Then he groans, and she feels the sound deep into her core.

“Yes,” he finally says. “It is very good.”

His thumb moves, caressing the soft skin of her hand, and by unspoken agreement, the apple finds its way back to her, where she takes another bite.

This continues in silence for a few minutes, until Abbie says, “You know, these are easier to eat if you cut them up first.”

“Yes, but it is not nearly as much fun that way,” Ichabod replies, reaching up to swipe the last bit of caramel with his finger, from over the core. Then he offers it to her.

Her eyebrow twitches upwards, but then she leans forward, takes his finger into her mouth, and quite thoroughly sucks the caramel off of it.

“Bloody hell,” he softly curses.

She releases his finger and smiles, completely understanding the intent of his words. “Tasty,” she says, her smile broadening into a grin. “I… think that’s the end of that apple.”

“Hmm? Oh. Quite,” he agrees, snapping back into reality from whatever fantasy world he had been visiting. He looks around, then sets the spent core on the bench at the edge of the cemetery, intending to retrieve it for proper disposal on their way back. “Shall we proceed?”

She looks over at the small, secluded cemetery and its tilted and worn headstones, and says, “Sure. Let’s see how old these things are.”

Her hand finds its way into his once again as they slowly progress. It seems darker, quieter, more somber in amongst the tombstones. Once again, they lament the lack of a flashlight, and even discuss the possibility of asking Bram if they can return in daylight to take another look.

“What is that?” Abbie asks, tugging him further in.

Ichabod notices she steps very carefully, and wonders if her footwear is causing her discomfort. “Abbie, are your boots troubling you?”

“No, why do you ask?” she returns.

“You seem to be walking with great care is all,” he explains.

“Oh,” she stops, looking down. “I, um, don’t like stepping on people.”

He takes a second to ponder her response, then says, “How very respectful of you.” In truth, he thinks her taking such care is quite endearing.

“You don’t think I’m weird?” she asks. “Oooh, it’s a crypt!” she declares.

“Of course I do,” he answers. “But as I also am, I am in no position to judge.” He moves closer to the crypt, squinting to see the writing on the door. “Besides, I quite like your weirdness.”

She sidles up beside him, and he unthinkingly places his arm around her like he has done it a thousand times.

“Good, because I like yours, too,” she replies. “Lachlan Fredericks.”

“Hmm?”

“Lachlan Fredericks. That’s the name on the crypt,” she explains.

“Mr. Fredericks built this house. And you have excellent night vision,” he says.

“Maybe it’s a cop thing,” she answers with a shrug. She leans closer, tracing the numbers with her finger. “Looks like he died in 1798. Wow. And this thing is still standing.”

“Phenomenal. Now I am certain I must return during the daylight hours. For professional reasons, if nothing else,” he says. “Though you are of course most welcome to accompany me. If you won’t find it too _boring_.”

She nudges him, able to hear the smile in his voice. “I could perhaps be persuaded… if you maybe sweeten the deal with dinner afterwards.”

He looks down at her and says, “Oh absolutely.”

They stand there for just a moment, but it feels much longer as the air grows thick around them, swirling with the tension of their attraction. The cool, damp autumn air feels warm and close in their little bubble. Before he fully realizes what he is doing, Ichabod Crane leans down and kisses Abbie Mills on the edge of a cemetery, right beside a 200 year old crypt, on Halloween night.

She responds almost immediately, returning his kiss as her arms come up to his shoulders. They both moan at the same time, opening up to one another, tongues meeting in a kiss that quickly grows hungry. When his hand slides down her body and closes over her rear, she arches up against him, ready to climb this tree.

“Oh…” Ichabod gasps, pulling back, his hand jerking away from her ass as if he only just realized what he was doing. “I am—”

“Don’t apologize,” Abbie interrupts him, laughing. “Do not apologize at all.” She reaches up and rubs her thumb over a spot on his beard. “Caramel,” she mutters, showing it to him.

He takes her finger and puts it in his mouth, sucking the caramel off of her finger much the same as she did to his earlier.

She closes her eyes, enjoying every moment of his attention.

“Your hands are so tiny,” he comments afterward, holding her hand up against his. He curls the tips of his fingers over hers just to further illustrate how much bigger his hands are. “But they match the rest of you, you… pocket-sized Aphrodite.”

Her eyebrows raise. “That’s a new one,” she says, moving her hands up to cup his face. “You are something else, Ichabod Crane,” she says, then lifts up on tiptoe to kiss him once more.

This time their kiss is interrupted by a sound behind them. It sounds like a twig snapping under the sole of a boot, and they jump apart, startled.

“Hello?” Abbie calls, turning, automatically switching into Cop Mode. Her eyes have adjusted to the dark, but it is still very difficult to see anything. She takes a few tentative steps forward, holding her hand behind her, indicating that Crane should stay where he is. Her foot brushes against a large fallen branch, so she bends down and picks it up, wielding it like a baseball bat. A second later there is a strange scraping sound, and she squints into the darkness but still sees nothing. “Is someone there?”

Silence.

The wind blows, rattling the dry leaves in the treetops and at their feet.

She turns around again and sees Ichabod watching her with an expression that can only be called amused admiration.

“Shall we return to the party?” he asks.

“Yeah, I guess. It’s getting a little… creepy out here,” she admits, then holds her hand out.

He clasps it and they begin walking back to the house.

In the middle of the cemetery, the wind swirls around them in what feels like a deliberate way. Abbie pauses for a second, looking up at Crane.

“Curious,” is all he says, but she can see he found it just as unsettling as she did.

xXx

 _So did you get some in the graveyard?_ Jenny’s text comes the next morning. By the time Abbie and Ichabod returned to the ballroom, Jenny and Joe were nowhere to be found. Thankfully, that gave Crane the perfect opportunity to offer Abbie a ride home, which he had been hoping to do.

 _First of all, it was a cemetery, not a graveyard, and second of all, no. Not that it’s any of your business,_ Abbie replies, silencing her phone and tossing it on her nightstand.

A long arm reaches out and pulls her back, deeper into the bed.

“My sister is too damn nosy,” she mumbles, snuggling against the warm body behind her.

“I am certain I will be quite thoroughly grilled by Bram as soon as he gets the opportunity,” Ichabod answers, pressing a kiss to the back of her shoulder. “There are probably several texts and missed calls in my mobile, should I care to check.” He kisses her neck. “And I do not.”

“I silenced my phone now,” she replies, turning in his arms. “I’m surprised she’s even awake.”

He leans down and kisses her. “What time is it?”

“Mmm, 6:30ish,” she answers. “Too early,” she says, but her body seems to be waking up just fine, wanting another taste of what it enjoyed the previous night.

“Much too early,” he agrees, his lips kissing a trail down her neck as he coaxes her onto her back, moving over her, his body clearly wanting the same thing.

“Absolutely too early for anything besides… oh, yes… sleeping,” she comments, momentarily distracted by his lips and hands on her skin.

“Anything?” he murmurs, his hand slipping between her legs, which part for him with almost embarrassing ease.

“Maybe I spoke too s-soo…” she answers, stuttering when his fingers make contact with her slick center. “Those fingers of yours are far too talented,” she gasps, arching under him even as she gropes for him, looking to fight fire with fire.

When her fingers wrap around him, he groans. “They have nothing on yours,” he replies. “Or your lips… your tongue…”

“Shut up,” she moans, her free hand grasping him by the chin. She guides his face to hers, intending to stop his words with her mouth. She learned quickly last night that his loquaciousness is not diminished by the throes of passion. She found it somewhat adorably endearing, but right now, it seems a little distracting.

“Forgive me,” he gasps, tearing away for a second. “I tend to—”

“I _know_ ,” she interrupts, reaching over to her nightstand for a condom. She tears it open and tosses the wrapper beside the other one before rolling it over him and slotting him into place.

Crane enters her slowly, drawing out his own torture. He groans, his mouth going slack as his eyes roll back and close. “You are divine,” he breathes. “Simply… ehhhh… xquisite…” he groans, drawing the words out as he moves, trying to keep his pace slow for now.

Abbie slides her hands up his chest, up and into the long hair falling over his face, clenching her fists into it and tugging his face down to hers. His kiss is as hungry and needy as the motion of his hips is languid, and she sighs into him, trying to tug him closer even though she knows it is nearly impossible.

“Abbie…” he gasps, bending his long back so he can place sucking kisses on her neck. “Oh, my dearest… my siren, my Aphrodite… my every fantasy…”

Her hands flit and flutter over his body, unable to settle in one place, his mumbled endearments a heady combination when coupled with the sinful things his body is doing to hers. He picks up his pace and she wraps her legs around his waist, hanging on.

His mutterings turn nonsensical as he drives into her, carrying them to their peak together.

“Ich…” she gasps, fisting his hair once more, this time simply pulling it, mindless of anything apart from the sensations quickly building; delicious warmth spreading from her center outward until it becomes too big to be contained and bursts. “Oh!” It is little more than an exhale, but her body jerks under his along with it.

That is all it takes to set him off and he is trembling over her, his hips stilling with his cock buried deep inside her. “Abbie,” he groans, his voice hoarse now. He relaxes, his forehead dropping against hers.

Abbie tilts her chin up and pecks his lips. “You say really interesting things in the, um, throes,” she says, giggling a little. “Are you even really aware of what is coming out of your mouth?”

Ichabod laughs, a little embarrassed. He kisses her once more and moves off of her, disposing of the condom. Then he waits another minute, watching with interest as she readjusts the scarf she tied around her hair after removing the long Beyoncé wig the previous night. “Somewhat,” he finally answers, tucking her against his side. “Do you… that is, does it bother you very much?” he asks.

“No,” she answers. “I mean, how could I be bothered by you calling me your fantasy? In this context, of course. It would be super creepy if we were, like, in an elevator or on the bus or something,” she explains, laughing a little.

“I would never!” he exclaims in mock horror.

She moves suddenly, pinning him under her. “And even if you – or anyone – did, I would be able to put you on your ass. And not in that kind of fun way, either,” she replies, grinning ruefully at him.

He blinks and swallows, then says, “I probably should not be turned on by that information.” He licks his lips and looks up at her, and all she sees in his eyes is lust.

She shrugs. “Again, it’s the context,” she says, leaning down to kiss him. “Plus the fact that we’re both naked.” Then she bites his earlobe and whispers, “If I really wanted to incapacitate you, we wouldn’t be having this conversation because you’d be unconscious.”

“Still turned on,” he admits, and all she can do is laugh and settle down beside him again. He kisses her forehead.

“You are weird,” she replies, snuggling against him. “And it’s still too early.”

“I agree,” he says, blissfully closing his eyes. “With both statements.”

“Mmm,” she hums, her eyes heavy and her body melting into his warmth. “I like you though.”

“And I, you,” he responds. “Quite a lot.”

“Mmm-hmm,” she agrees. She takes a deep breath and slowly releases a contended sigh. “What time are we going back to Bram’s?” she asks, her voice heavy with sleep.

“After lunch,” he answers. “Sleep now.”

“Wonder if he has any caramel apples left?” She doesn’t even notice his chuckle as she drifts back to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks to @OriginalDBubble/darlablovesichabbie! She knows why. ;)


	37. Indoor Diversions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'm not sure if there is officially an Ichabbie Holidays event for 2017, but if there is one, this is for that.

The front door of the bed and breakfast opens, and the foyer is briefly blasted with biting Arctic air before it is hastily slammed. Snowflakes swirl, land, and melt around the figure that has just entered.

“Holy _fuck_ ,” she exclaims, dropping her bag and unwinding the scarf from around her neck.

“Yes, that does seem to be the general sentiment,” a pleasant-looking man replies as he walks towards her. “I presume you are the Abigail Mills with whom I spoke ten minutes ago?”

“Yes,” she confirms. “You don’t know how glad I am you had a vacancy. The snow is getting ridiculous out there.”

“The interstate highways have just been closed,” the man says. “Andy Brooks,” he introduces himself, extending his hand. “Welcome to Ned & Breakfast.”

Abbie pulls her mitten off and shakes his hand. “You know that’s a really weird name, right?” she asks.

He nods, laughing. “Well, according to my late father-in-law Ned, the name was supposed to be ‘Ned’s Bed & Breakfast’, but everyone kept calling it ‘Ned & Breakfast’, so he just changed it,” he explains with a shrug. “Come. I’ll show you to your room.”

She follows him up the stairs, noting the festive holiday decorations all around. It’s all very tasteful and not at all overdone. “You guys going to have any big events for Christmas?” she asks.

“Not really. Just business as usual. We thought about having some kind of special event, but decided against it. We’ll of course be having a traditional Christmas dinner for the guests staying here, but that’s about it,” he answers. “Here we are. I mentioned your room adjoins the one next door, but you both have locks on your own side, so you’ll be perfectly safe.”

“That’s fine,” she replies, looking around the room. It looks exactly like one would expect a B&B in upstate New York to look at this time of year: sumptuous four-poster bed dressed in deep red linens, lit fireplace (gas, for convenience and safety) with stockings hung, and a small Christmas tree in one corner. There is also a plush armchair with a red and green quilt artfully draped over it. “This is lovely, thanks,” she adds.

“Dinner will be down in the dining room in an hour,” Andy says. “The bathroom is right across the hall.”

“Thanks again,” Abbie answers, peeling her coat off. The one thing she doesn’t like about this sort of lodging is the shared bathroom. But there were no other hotels with any vacancy nearby, and the heavily falling snow made her desperate.

She sinks down onto the chair with a heavy sigh and begins untying her boots. Her phone pings in her coat pocket, but before she can look at it, a sound from the other side of the connecting door takes her attention. It sounds like a muffled curse word, and she looks up at the door, slightly amused. She pulls her boot off and starts on the second one.

“Oh, sod it all!”

That was much clearer, and this time she could make out the rich baritone timbre of his voice as well as the English accent.

“Charming,” she mutters with a chuckle, then removes her other boot. She remembers her phone and retrieves it from her pocket to see a text from Jenny.

_U okay?_

She types a quick reply, telling her sister where she is, not to worry, and stay safe, then hears a door slam followed by an apology in the hallway.

She thinks about peeking out to see who her mysterious, unhappy neighbor is, but decides changing into dry clothes is a better idea.

_Maybe I’ll see him at dinner._

xXx

Abbie heads down to dinner about five minutes before the prescribed time, wanting to make sure she can have her pick of the seats. The only person in the dining room is a petite woman with brown hair who is bustling around.

“Oh!” She startles when she turns around and sees Abbie. “You must be our refugee from the storm,” she says.

“Abbie, and yes,” she introduces herself with a smile. “I’m sorry for being too early… I have this thing about being punctual.”

“Oh, no, no, it’s fine. Everyone else staying here right now apparently does not share your compulsion,” she assures her. “I’m Zoe. You met my husband earlier.”

“Ah, so you must be the late Ned’s daughter,” Abbie says. “May I sit?”

“Of course,” Zoe answers, smiling. Just then a young couple enter the dining room, followed by a middle-aged couple.

“Everyone, this is Abbie, brought to us by the blizzard,” Zoe says as everyone sits. “Abbie this is Sophie and Betsy,” she introduces, gesturing to the young couple, “and Frank and Cynthia.” Everyone exchanges pleasantries, and Zoe briefly wrings her hands. “Does… does anyone know if Dr. Crane will be joining us?”

“Your guess is as good as any of ours,” Cynthia answers. “I ran into him in the hallway upstairs, and he was in a _mood._ Again.”

“Oh, dear,” Zoe says.

Abbie decides Cynthia must have been the person to whom the mysterious Dr. Crane apologized, and her curiosity is now further piqued.

“He’s trying to write a book,” Betsy whispers beside Abbie, filling her in. “We don’t think it’s going very—”

“Oh! Dr. Crane!” Zoe exclaims, a little too brightly. “We were just wondering if you were going to be joining us for dinner.”

“I fear I need the break, thank you Mrs. Brooks,” Crane says, his expression tight as he sits. Peevish. Then the tension in his face eases a bit, and he says, “But if that is indeed lasagna I smell, perhaps the evening will not be a total loss.”

Zoe simpers and blushes. “Yes it is. You have an amazing sense of smell,” she says, seeming strangely flustered. “Andy should be bringing it out any second now. I… I should go help him.”

As she scurries away, Abbie tears her gaze away from the handsome doctor to give Betsy a puzzled look. Both Betsy and Sophie simply shake their heads in befuddlement.

Frank clears his throat. “Um, Dr. Crane, this is Abbie,” he introduces, since Zoe never bothered. “She just got here tonight. Stranded by the blizzard. Abbie, Dr. Ichabod Crane.”

“Hi,” Abbie says, smiling at him, deciding to be polite to the cranky Englishman. He does indeed seem to be in a _mood_ , but he is undeniably handsome and his unusually formal manners make him seem even more attractive.

He simply blinks at her from across the table as though he cannot quite process what he is seeing. Then he says, “Very nice to meet you.”

Abbie thinks she hears Sophie stifle a giggle, but then Andy and Zoe return, their arms laden with food. The lasagna does indeed smell amazing, and it is only enhanced by the scent of the garlic bread. Abbie hadn’t realized how hungry she was until just now.

Food is passed around, drinks are poured, and polite conversation is made.

“So, Abbie,” Frank says, turning towards her. “What line of work are you in?”

Abbie swallows what she had been chewing. “I’m with the FBI,” she answers, the braces herself for the inevitable exclamations and barrage of questions.

“Really?”

“Wow, that’s really cool!”

“But you’re so tiny!”

“Hey now, she’s probably heard all those before, settle down,” Frank interjects, surprising her by saving her.

“Here we go,” Cynthia mutters into her wineglass, just before Frank speaks again.

“I was with the NYPD for 25 years,” he says. “Injury forced me to retire, so now I spend my time getting on Cynthia’s nerves and doing consulting work.”

Everyone laughs politely, then Abbie and Frank continue talking about law enforcement while the others move on to other topics.

“How is your book going, Dr. Crane?” Andy asks a few minutes later, and everyone falls silent, curious.

“Not as smoothly as I would like, as some of you may have guessed,” he answers, giving Cynthia an apologetic nod. “Miss Molly Pitcher is giving me quite the headache at the moment. There are at least two different women who are believed to have been her, and I cannot resolve the issue.”

“Can’t you just address it like that in your book?” Abbie blurts. He gives her that incredulous look again, and she feels heat rising to her cheeks. “I mean… um… what is your book about?”

“Women who posed as men to fight in wars,” he answers.

“Oh, like Deborah Sampson and Cathay Williams,” Abbie replies.

He nods, looking quite surprised. He recovers, then says, “I am aware that Miss Pitcher does not technically fall into that category, but as she is one of the most well-known female figures from the American Revolution, I felt it would be an oversight to not include her.”

“Well, you could just… not,” Abbie recommends. “Since, as you said, she doesn’t really fit into the theme of your book – which sounds amazing, by the way. Maybe you could do a follow-up about the role of women in wars throughout history. Like, women who didn’t have to cross-dress.”

“An interesting idea. And it would give me more time to further research,” he responds, nodding thoughtfully, his hand coming up to stroke his beard.

Abbie’s eyes are drawn to his elegant, long-fingered hand, and her traitorous brain immediately began thinking of all the things those hands could do to a girl like her. _A girl who clearly hasn’t had any in far too long and clearly is currently unable to discern if he is sexy or just tall._

“Sorry,” she apologizes, realizing his book is really none of her concern. “It’s your book; you write what you want to write. You don’t need input from some stranger who has a bad habit of speaking exactly what is on her mind whether it’s in her lane or not.”

“No, no,” he assures her. “You raised two very valid points that I shall definitely consider.”

It is then Abbie realizes that the rest of the diners are staring at them. She has no way of knowing that she is the first person whose thoughts he has even entertained about the content of his book. The first person who has been able to engage him in an actual two-sided conversation about it.

“So…” she ventures, looking around the table. “I take it you’re some sort of history professor then?” she asks.

“I am indeed, at Cornell,” he answers. “I thought the solitude of this inn would lend me the correct atmosphere in which to write during this winter break, but alas, it seems solitude is a poor muse, at least for me.” He takes a drink of his wine and says, “I did not even realize it was snowing.”

Frank openly laughs at that, saying, “Well, maybe if you came out of your room for more than just meals, you’d be more aware of the weather.”

Crane half-nods. “While you have a point, the weather is of little concern to me at this juncture.”

“It isn’t healthy to close yourself away like that,” Zoe ventures.

“Zoe, he’s a grown man and can do what he wants,” Andy says, patting her hand. He stands. “Anyone for dessert? I’ve got pecan pie and blueberry pie.”

“Blueberry? This time of year?” Sophie blurts.

“Trust me,” Andy says, looking very sure of himself.

“I’m in,” Sophie nods. Frank and Cynthia opt out, excusing themselves, but the ladies all remain.

“I need to see how your pecan pie measures up to my gran’s,” Abbie says when Andy returns, a pie in each hand.

“Oh I doubt I can live up to that kind of standard, but can I guarantee it’s not going to kill you,” he answers.

“Well, that’s reassuring,” Abbie laughs. She catches Crane watching her, and the intensity of his stare causes her laughter to die in a self-conscious cough. She reaches for her wine and takes a drink, avoiding his cerulean gaze.

While Andy begins cutting and serving, Betsy leans over again. “I think Crane is into you,” she whispers.

“What?”

“Betsy? Blueberry or pecan?” Andy asks.

“Pecan,” she answers. “Not a fan of blueberries, sorry.”

He doesn’t ask Abbie, knowing her preference. “Dr. Crane? One of each, as usual?”

“Yes, please,” Crane answers.

As Abbie digs into her pie, she can’t help noticing the professor’s rail-thin physique. She also remembers how he packed away two good-sized pieces of lasagna, a nice helping of salad, and at least two pieces of bread.

“We think he’s completely hollow inside,” Sophie says, not caring if he hears her.

“I have always been slender, despite my best efforts,” he simply answers, his attention on his plate.

“Andy, this pie isn’t my gran’s, but it’s damn good,” Abbie pronounces. “ _Damn_ good.”

“Thanks,” he replies, pleased with her praise.

When they are all done, he says, “Since we seem to be snowed in, Zoe and I will be putting out some board games and other indoor diversions in the parlor if anyone is interested.”

They all express their thanks for the dinner and drift back to their rooms.

xXx

Abbie sits in her room, checking her email on her laptop. She’s technically off-duty now, but is so bored she’s checking work emails.

_Indoor diversions in the parlor. I bet they don’t include indoor diversions like seeing if the myth is true about tall, skinny guys with big hands and feet._

She sighs, closes her laptop, and quietly leaves her room. She heads downstairs to see if anyone is around.

The parlor is deserted, but the aforementioned games are sitting out, along with a few decks of cards and some books.

She sighs again and heads back upstairs. She pauses outside her door, debating.

“Screw it,” she mutters, then walks the few steps to the next door. After another pause, she raises her fist and knocks.

The door is opened a moment later by a puzzled-looking Ichabod Crane. He is still wearing his shirt and pants, but his feet are bare and his sleeves are rolled up. He stares down at Abbie, in her fuzzy polka-dot pants and hoodie, her hair tied up.

“Hi,” she says. “I know you’re trying to write, but—”

“I have given up for the evening,” he interjects. “With what can I help you?”

“I’m guessing you play chess.”

“Of course I play chess.”

She angles her head at him in a silent invitation. “There’s a chess board down in the parlor.”

“One of the ‘indoor diversions’, I presume?”

“You up for it?”

He steps out, closing the door behind him. “Are you certain you wish to walk this path, Miss…?”

“Mills, but you can call me Abbie.”

“Are you certain you wish to walk this path, Miss Mills?”

She straightens up, squaring her shoulders. “Bring it, Brit boy,” she says, then turns and strides down the hall, assuming he will follow.

“God, give me strength,” Crane whispers to himself as he watches this diminutive Aphrodite stride away, her perfect, round backside just taunting him from beneath the fuzzy polka dots.

xXx

He wins the first game. She wins the second. He blames himself for being overconfident after his initial victory.

She tells him she spent the first game learning his technique.

That gets under his skin, and he further straightens his ramrod-straight back. “Miss Mills, I am an historian, specializing in warfare and battle strategy.”

She leans forward, resting her chin on her hand as she smiles over at him. “Dr. Crane, I am a profiler for the FBI. That means I specialize in reading people and predicting their next move.”

Her words, plus the fact that her position gives him a very nice view of her cleavage, throw him. He has worked very hard to school his fidgeting and twitching when he plays chess, but still she saw through him. “Be that as it may,” he counters, clearing his throat, “we still need one more match to settle the stalemate.”

“Oh, so you’re not content ending in a tie?” she asks. “Competitive, aren’t we?” His eyebrow twitches upward and he begins resetting the board.

She joins in, grabbing her pieces, and he asks, “Shall we increase the stakes?”

She notices he appears to be talking to the board, not her, but answers, “What, like a bet?” He nods. “I’d feel bad taking your money,” she says, smiling impishly at him.

“I’m not exactly certain your confidence is not misplaced,” he replies. “But we need not involve money.”

“Strip chess? I think that might take a while. Unless we go by pieces captured rather than full game victories,” she answers, immensely gratified when his face flushes bright red. It simply confirms the _other_ thing she observed about him during their two games of chess: He’s attracted to her, too.

“Let us just say that the winner can decide how he wishes to be compensated,” he suggests.

“Or she,” she counters. “You can go first,” she says with a wave of her hand.

“Do we have an accord then?” he asks, offering his hand.

She takes it and shakes it. “Yes.”

_Let’s see if I’m brave enough to ask for what I want if I win._

xXx

He looks dejected. Dejected, but somehow hopeful. “It seems you have bested me after all, Miss Mills.”

“It seems I have, Dr. Crane,” she replies.

“And what is it you desire?” he asks, his voice somehow sounding deeper and softer than before.

She looks at him, hiding her wringing hands under the table. “I’ll tell you upstairs,” she says.

Then she leaves the table, leaving him staring, dumbfounded, for about two seconds, before he quickly follows.

She is waiting outside her door. “Ichabod,” she says, trying out his unusual first name. It hadn’t escaped her attention that everyone called him “Dr. Crane” despite addressing one another by their first names. She wasn’t sure if it was out of respect or intimidation, but she decided this is an occasion for familiarity.

“Miss Mills,” he replies.

“Abbie,” she prompts as he comes closer.

“Abbie,” he echoes, nearly a whisper.

“I would like a good-night kiss,” she tells him.

He moves to stand right in front of her, so close his feet are on either side of hers on the rug.

“I think I can accommodate that request,” he murmurs, then leans down, his hand coming up to gently cradle her face just before his lips brush against hers in a light, soft kiss.

“I think you can do better than that,” she whispers, her lips still centimeters from his.

Something seems to snap loose inside of him and he descends upon her again, his lips hungrily claiming hers this time.

His arms seem to wind endlessly around her slender body and she melts into him, trying to pull herself higher, closer.

“Wait…” she gasps, breaking away. He immediately begins apologizing so profusely that he doesn’t notice she is digging in her pocket for her key.

She opens the door, grabs his shirt, and yanks him inside, closing the door behind them.

“Oh,” he croaks, staring dazedly down at her.

His sudden lack of movement gives Abbie pause. “Is this okay? Because I thought—”

Crane suddenly pulls her back into his arms. “I have been wanting you since I laid eyes on you at dinner,” he rumbles.

“You can lay anything you want on me,” she replies, worming one arm in between them to unzip her hoodie. He pushes it from her shoulders, revealing a simple gray tank top underneath that doesn’t conceal much at all.

“Is that a guarantee?” he asks, his fingers trailing down her arms while he bends his head to kiss her neck.

“Yeah,” she breathes, tugging him by his shirt again until they reach the bed, which she had already turned down. “But I’m gonna get a stiff neck if we keep standing.”

“Quite,” he agrees, following her onto the bed, where he looms over her. “Yes,” he declares, kissing her, “this is much better.” His hand starts pushing up her tank top until it finds the soft but firm skin of her stomach. He groans.

Her fingers have been busy with the buttons of his shirt, and when he feels her small hands on his skin, he groans again, louder.

She pushes his shirt off, and now it is his turn to say, “Wait.”

“What is it?” she asks.

“We should… that is… we need to be responsible,” he says. “I have no condoms with me, as I did not anticipate meeting such a goddess as yourself.”

“I don’t have any either,” she replies, smiling. “I’ve never been called a goddess before.”

“Then you have gone sorely under-appreciated,” he answers, leaning down to kiss her some more.

“Ichabod,” she says, framing his face with her hands. “Focus,” she chuckles.

He clears his throat. “Yes… it seems we are in a bit of a conundrum. I… I suppose I could see if Mr. Brooks or Captain Irv—”

“Are you clean?” she asks, interrupting him.

“What?”

“Are. You. Clean?” she repeats, punctuating her words with kisses.

“Yes.”

“So am I,” she replies, kissing him deeply. “And I’m on birth control.”

His eyes flash and he delves back in, picking up right where they stopped earlier, returning his hand where it was and pushing it higher, closing over her breast.

“Mmm,” she sighs, running her hands over his warm skin as he kisses lower. Somehow her tank top finds its way to the floor and his trousers are opened.

“I cannot believe… you beat me…” Crane gasps, alternating his words with bites, licks, and kisses over her neck and breasts. “I was… Oxford’s chess champion… two years running…”

Abbie laughs, her small, strong fingers tangled in his hair, guiding his face back up to hers, where she places a searing kiss on his swollen lips. “You were the one who suggested upping the stakes. Don’t play if you can’t afford to lose, Professor,” she retorts, then sucks his lower lip into her mouth as her sneaky hand slips down the front of his pants, drawing a groan from him.

His groan turns into a growl and he pulls away from her, yanking her pajama pants down and off, followed by her equally fuzzy socks. He pauses just a moment to hungrily take in the sight of her before quickly divesting himself of his pants and boxers.

“I cannot recall ever wanting someone as desperately as I do you,” he murmurs once he is over her once more. “It is like you have cast a spell over me.”

“I know,” she agrees, and the thought gives her pause. He notices and lifts his head. “Let’s just enjoy tonight and not think about what happens later,” she says, addressing the unspoken elephant that has slipped into the room.

“Well then I intend to make the most of this night,” he rumbles, sliding his hand from her hip to her knee and pulling it up against his side.

“Good,” she answers, hooking her leg around his back and pulling him closer.

His eyebrow rises and his lips curl into a rather lewd, hungry smile just before he drops his hips and finds his home.

xXx

Abbie stirs, the grayish light of morning penetrating her eyelids enough to draw her into wakefulness. She snuggles deeper into the bed, her body semi-unconsciously seeking out the warm body that should be there.

The warm body that played hers like a virtuoso nearly all night.

He’s not there. The bed isn’t even warm. She peeps one eye open and sees the dented pillow beside her. She frowns, but then she hears something. A faint tapping sound.

She turns over and sees him sitting in his boxer briefs and a plain black t-shirt, furiously typing on his laptop, his brows knit in concentration.

“Ichabod?” she softly calls, not really wishing to disturb him.

He immediately looks up and his scowl melts into a tender smile. “I seem to have found a new muse,” he says. “You unlocked the door that was blocking my progress, my treasure.”

“Mmm, glad I could help,” she sleepily replies. She stretches and groans, muscles she forgot she had protesting with the movement.

“Yes, my body feels a bit worse for wear this morning as well,” he observes, talking as he types. “But I do not regret one second.”

“Me neither,” she agrees. “Oh, what I wouldn’t give for a nice, hot bath.”

“There is a tub in the bathroom across the hall,” he suggests.

“Yeah, the bathroom that I have to share.”

“With me. The young ladies and the Irvings have a separate one,” he answers.

Abbie sits up, her hand automatically going to her head. Thankfully, she had the presence of mind to wrap her hair up before they finally succumbed to exhaustion. She unties the silk scarf and neatly folds it. “Really?” she asks.

He looks at her again. “Really.” He closes his laptop, then says, “I do not know if you had noticed, but it is a rather large tub as well.”

“Is that so?” she asks, reaching down to retrieve the shirt he had on last night. She puts it on, wearing it like an oversized dress.

He stands. “You know, Ithaca is not that far from Syracuse,” he says, extending his hand. She had told him she had been on her way from the City back up to Syracuse when the storm caused her to stop.

“Only about an hour,” she agrees, taking the offered hand. “And you have summers off, right?”

“I do,” he confirms, pulling her into his arms. “I would very much like to see where this,” he motions between them, “leads.” Then he softly kisses her. “And I cannot accept the prospect of never seeing you again.”

“Oh good,” she says, winding her arms up around his shoulders. “Because I feel the same way.” She kisses him, then pulls away and asks, “Is it still snowing?”

He angles his head at her. “Do you truly care?”

“Not really,” she answers, tugging him towards the door.


	38. Lupercalia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Abbie learns a little something about Valentine's Day in colonial times, and Crane gets takeout food.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Shows up 2 days late with fic* Ichabbie Valentine goes until 2/16, right? Okay cool.

“You did what now?” Abbie Mills sputters, after nearly spraying her beer across the table. She managed to not shower her partner with beer, but only just.

Ichabod Crane sighed, took a long drink of his beer, then set it on the bar. “Lupercalia,” he repeats. “Many people in my time celebrated festivities based on the Roman holiday of Lupercalia, in commemoration of Romulus and Remus, the fabled founders of Rome.”

“Yeah, yeah, I got that. The part about the goat costumes is where you lost me. I thought Romulus and Remus were raised by wolves, not goats,” she replies.

“It was goat-skinned _clothing_ , not goat costumes,” he corrects.

“Okay, okay, whatever, but you guys would run around in your _goat-skinned clothing_ and chase girls around? That’s just weird,” she says.

“I’ll have you know I never participated in such ridiculous sport,” he informs, straightening his shoulders. “’Twas most undignified, chasing after young ladies with branches, bellowing into the night like common hooligans.”

Abbie stares at him for a long second.  _This just keeps getting weirder and weirder._ She had simply asked him about Valentine’s Day back in his time, figuring she’d hear stories of courtly love and chaperoned strolls. Instead she got Tales of Strange Pagan Rituals. “Okay, you left out some details there. Branches? Bellowing?”

“Very well, I will give the full explanation, since you seem to be insisting on every ridiculous detail. During Lupercalia, men would chase the women; the aim, of course, would be to catch a virgin,” Crane explains, then waits for the expected snort from his partner. She doesn’t disappoint. “They would also lightly whip at their quarries with leaves as they were chased, while laughing as loudly as possible to scare away the evil spirits associated with winter.”

“Naturally,” she replies.

“It was also said to aid in female fertility, but that is obviously a load of rubbish,” he adds.

“Right, and scaring away the evil spirits is totally reasonable,” she replies. Then she pauses, realizing how they’ve been spending the last few years of their lives. “Yeah, never mind. We could have used something to scare away evil spirits just last week.”

He laughs at this, nodding. “Indeed,” he agrees. “Perhaps I should invest in some goat-skinned clothing.”

“I think I have some gloves, but they’d never fit you,” she says. “In any case, I think I’ll keep the modern cheesy Valentine’s Day traditions.”

“They are certainly less strenuous,” he agrees.

She smirks, says, “Not if you do it right,” then finishes her beer.

xXx

“Crane?” Abbie calls a few days later, returning home after a long day of FBI work, hoping it won’t turn into a long night of Witness work. “Crane?”

She stops dead when she catches sight of the dining room. The table has been set for two, with lit candles and flowers.

“Ah, Lieutenant,” Crane appears from the kitchen. “Welcome home.” He’s not wearing his apron, but she can smell food.

“What’s all this?” she asks, even though it is fairly obvious. She can’t quite place the delicious aromas she’s smelling, and it’s distracting her a little.

“A little Valentine’s Day feast,” he declares. “Sadly, I cannot take credit for the cuisine, as I fear my culinary skills will never match that of Tandoor Palace.”

Suddenly her brain catches up to her nose. “Oh, okay, that’s what I smell,” she says. “Why Indian food?” she asks, knowing he generally has a reason for everything.

He smiles a crafty little smile and says, “Come now, Miss Mills, surely you can guess.”

“Crane, it’s been a long day…”

“Of course, of course. Please, sit. I will bring our dinner.”

Abbie takes her seat, and a moment later, Crane returns with several dishes. Of course he didn’t leave the food in the carry-out containers; everything has been transferred to bowls and platters. It takes him two trips to bring all the food, and then a third for the wine.

She understands why he chose Indian food when he starts telling her what everything is.

“We have chicken tikka masala, of course; this is madras shrimp, and this is, um, goat vindaloo,” he says.

“Goat, hmm?” she asks, smiling.

“I thought we might eat it instead of wearing it,” he says, his cheeks flushing pink above his beard. Then he moves on to presenting the vegetables, rice, and naan.

He is uncharacteristically quiet while they eat, and while Abbie wonders what else is going on inside that big brain of his, she actually appreciates the respite after the day she had. She’s not even annoyed he hasn’t asked her about her day, as he customarily does.

“This is all really good,” she says, tearing off another hunk of naan. “But I could live on just this,” she says, holding up the piece of bread in her hand.

“While it is quite tasty, I fear your nutrition would suffer if you did,” he comments. “And yes, I know your comment was not to be taken literally.”

She chuckles, thinking about how far he’s come since she first encountered him in the holding cell. “You just can’t help yourself, can you?” she asks.

“Rarely,” he admits. “Though you might be surprised at how often I do restrain myself. I _have_ learned that just because I know something, it does not necessarily mean I need to share it.”

“I know,” she tells him, giving him a smile. “It’s hard to be the smartest person in the room all the time.”

He drains the remainder of his wine, and Abbie indulges herself a moment to watch his long neck as he swallows, wondering not for the first time what he would do if she just leaned over and  _licked_ his Adam’s apple.

“I am not always the smartest person in the room,” he says, setting his glass down. “I have learned that as well. Because there are different _ways_ of being smart.” His hand lifts again, just bending up at the wrist. His fingers twitch a moment, then he rubs his fingertips with his thumb in a contemplative sort of gesture before moving his hand across to cover hers. “You, my dear Lieutenant, are wise and clever in ways I never could have imagined.”

She looks at their hands, then says, “Well, a lot of that is just… timing. We’re both products of our eras, that’s all. You know things I could never even think of either.”

“Yes, but a lot of my knowledge has become irrelevant or obsolete. Or both,” he says. When she makes to protest that his obsolete knowledge has saved their necks more than once, he holds up his hand. He pauses a moment further, and it appears he is trying to choose his next words carefully. “But I do know one thing above all else.”

“What’s that?” Abbie asks, curious as to what has him all mentally tied up.

He tightens his fingers around hers, his large hand engulfing her small one, and he lifts their joined hands to his face, where he lightly kisses her knuckles. “Above all else, you…” he looks at her, his blue eyes boring into her brown ones for a moment before dropping his gaze, “you are simply the most amazing person I have ever had the incredibly good fortune to know.” He kisses her hand again and looks at it, almost as if he is talking to it. “Many things have happened to me over which I had no control, but somehow they all led me to spending the second half of my life by your side. It is something I will always, always cherish, and I intend to remain at your side in… whatever capacity you will allow.”

She blinks a few times, letting his words soak in. She’s gotten pretty accustomed to his grandiose declarations about their Witness Bond and the Importance of everything they’ve been doing, but this sounds different. More personal. More ardent. “Crane, are you… saying what I think you are saying?” she asks.

He moves from his chair to kneel directly in front of her, still holding her hand, only now he has it clasped between both of his. “Miss Mills… Abbie… I am saying that I am happy to be your friend and partner if that is all you want of me. However, should a time come where you find you want more from me… from our relationship… that is, I would be honored if… that is, I would _like_ to… if—”

She finally silences him with a soft kiss. “You’re babbling, Ichabod,” she quietly says.

“I love you so much,” he exhales, his eyes still closed as he leans his forehead against hers. “I love you so much I can scarcely recall a time when I did _not_ love you.”

“That’s a… pretty impressive statement from a guy with an eidetic memory,” she says, deflecting out of pure reflex. He opens his eyes then, and she says, “I’m sorry. I…” she pauses, slightly shaking her head as she leans away from him.

“You do not feel the same.”

“Crane, I kissed you.”

“To stop my babbling, I assume.”

“That was only part of the reason.” She looks at him, still kneeling before her, his heart even more on his sleeve than usual. “I kissed you because I _wanted_ to kiss you,” she admits. “I’ve… been wanting to kiss you for some time now.”

“Y-you have?” he asks.

She takes his hand and stands, pulling him to his feet. Then she leads him to the living room, where they sit on the couch.

“I love you, too,” she blurts before she loses her nerve.

“You do?” he asks, stunned. She nods and he lunges, pauses and pulls back as if he is having second thoughts, then groans and surges towards her once more, sealing his lips over hers. Just as she is ready to climb onto his lap and set up camp for the evening, he pulls away and says, “Happy Valentine’s Day, dear Lieutenant.”

“Aw, we’re not celebrating Lupercalia?” she asks, nuzzling his nose before lightly raking her fingertips through his beard. Then she follows through with her earlier urge and moves into his lap.

He wraps his arms around her and says, “Well, if you would like me to retrieve some branches from outside, I’m sure—”

“You do it and you’ll spend the rest of the evening figuring out how to drive _yourself_ to the emergency room with a tree branch lodged in your backside,” she threatens.

He swallows. “Understood. No branches, no goat-skinned clothing.”

She kisses him, then says, “I wouldn’t be worth chasing anyway, since I’m not a virgin.”

He feigns shock, gasping dramatically. “How very scandalous! And you an unmarried woman!” he says, then kisses her laughing lips. “And while such undignified shenanigans are most definitely beneath both of us, I assure you that you are most definitely worth chasing.” He tightens his arms around her, as if to illustrate his point.

“Well, now that you’ve caught me, what do you plan on doing with me?” she asks, tilting her chin up at him in a light challenge.

He raises an eyebrow and stands, his arms tight around her. She squeaks in surprise and almost reflexively wraps her legs around his waist as, in uncharacteristic silence, he strides from the living room and heads up the stairs to her room.


	39. Lilacs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Sometimes I steal flowers from your garden on my way to the cemetery, but today you’ve caught me and have demanded to come with me to make sure the “girl is pretty enough to warrant flower theft” and I’m trying to figure out how to break it to you that we’re on our way to a graveyard AU "

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> from the Awful AUs Tumblr: http://awful-aus.tumblr.com/post/116941769918/awful-au-196

Ichabod Crane stands, his arms crossed over his chest, as he scowls at the lilac bushes in front of his house.

_I am certain there were more blooms. There. And… there._

He leans in closely, inspecting, and he slowly nods as his eidetic memory proves infallible once again. He can clearly see where branches have been cut – rather sloppily, probably due to either incorrect tools, haste, or both – indicating some  _thief_ has absconded with some of his prized lilacs.

His prized Yankee Doodle lilacs, striking with their dark purple color. He bought several specimens years ago, pampered them like spoiled children, and has been rewarded with prolific blooms and heady fragrance every spring.

They are the envy of every gardener in Sleepy Hollow.

And yet.

_Yet._

Some  _jackanape_ has the audacity to simply saunter past and  _help him or herself_ to several sprigs of his beautiful amethyst blooms.

“This will not stand,” Crane says, resolving to find and apprehend this knave as soon as possible.

xXx

It took three days before the bandit returned. Crane carefully monitored the lilacs, making sure to note the exact location of each budding blossom.

He rose earlier than necessary each day, watching the sidewalk outside his house through a gap in his curtains, fully dressed, ready to bolt out the door at the first sign of thievery.

He was most definitely not expecting said thievery to be in the form of a petite, well-dressed, breathtakingly gorgeous woman.

He automatically reaches for the doorknob when he sees her pause beside his bushes, but the way her eyes blissfully close when she leans in to smell the fragrant blossoms gives him pause.

She  _appreciates_ the flowers. She isn’t just taking them to take them.

A slight smile twitches over his lips when he notices how she looks almost miniature beside his lilacs, which are as tall as he is. The smile immediately falls when she looks around, quickly pulls a pocketknife from her jacket, and lops off a couple of flowers.

Then she hurries away.

Crane finally remembers his mission, but rather than confront this bewitching burglar, he surreptitiously follows her, determined to learn the fate of his beloved flowers.

_Whomever is the recipient of these flowers had better be worthy of such a gift,_ he haughtily thinks.

She reaches the end of the block and turns left. He follows, walking swiftly and silently a distance behind her. At one point, she stops and turns, and he dashes behind a tree, not wanting to look like a predator.

When she turns right at the end of the next block, he stops walking and his mouth drops open.

_Surely not._

_The only thing down that street is the cemetery._

He finds his feet and hurries after her, not wanting to lose sight of his tiny quarry.

Luckily, it is a small cemetery, and he finds her easily. She is still facing away from him, and he moves closer, watching with interest as she sets one sprig of flowers on a grave. He can only see the last name on the headstone: Mills.

When she moves away, he sees LORI ROBERTS MILLS in somber block letters, with “Mama” engraved smaller beneath it.

_Oh dear._

He tracks her progress to another grave, which appears to be much newer. She puts the other branch on this one. She also talks to this loved one a bit longer than the first.

AUGUST CORBIN.

_The police captain?_ Crane thinks, remembering the story of how he was killed in the line of duty the previous year. He never met the man, but he was said to have been well-liked and very good at his job. He remembers reading the article about him. Widower, one son, a couple of foster children…

“Hey.”

Her voice is clear and musical, but her tone is businesslike. “Hey,” she repeats, louder.

Crane snaps out of his reverie and focuses his eyes on her. He was so lost in thought that he didn’t notice she had turned around.

“You were following me,” she says, staring him down, her fearlessness belying her size. “Just so you know, I’m with the FBI and know six ways to incapacitate a man without using a weapon.”

He blinks. “You have been stealing my lilacs,” he counters. Strangely, he realizes he’s no longer upset about it.

“I’m s—”

“It’s all right,” he interjects. “I’m… I’m not angry. Not anymore.”

She angles her head at him and takes a step forward. “Why not?”

He gestures at the gravestones around him. “How can I be?” he asks, feeling oddly helpless, caught in her gaze.

“I know I shouldn’t have done it,” she replies. They are now standing close enough to speak without raising their voices. “But Mama and Corbin both really loved lilacs. And yours are just so beautiful.”

“Thank you,” he says. “Are you really with the FBI?” She nods, and he continues, “You, a member of the law enforcement community, stealing flowers?”

She sighs, looking generally remorseful. “I know. It’s awful and hypocritical of me.”

He lightly nods, but says, “I was unhappy to discover someone had been absconding with my prized lilacs, but… I understand.”

She gives him a puzzled look and he extends his hand. Still puzzled but intrigued, she throws caution to the wind (figuring he remembers her earlier warning) and places her hand in his. He begins walking, leading her to another grave not far away.

KATRINA CRANE.

“My late wife,” he explains.

“So you do understand,” she answers. They stand there for a few moments, still absentmindedly holding hands, when she suddenly says, “Wait,” and dashes away.

When she returns, she has a lilac flower, separated from one of the other bunches. She bends down and places it on Katrina’s grave.

“Thank you,” Crane softly says.

“What’s your name?” she asks, standing.

“Ichabod Crane,” he answers.

“From the museum?” she asks. He nods. “Sorry, not many people in Sleepy Hollow named Ichabod,” she explains. “I liked the exhibit you did back in February for Black History Month. On the role black people played in the Revolutionary War? It was really good.”

“Thank you, Miss…?”

“Abbie Mills,” she answers, offering her hand.

He shakes it. “Perhaps I should curate an exhibit on the history of the FBI… if it will get you to return to the museum.”

She laughs, and it sounds almost unnaturally loud and cheerful in the somber quiet of the cemetery. “Perhaps,” she coyly says, then seems to backpedal when she realizes she’s flirting with him. In front of his dead wife’s grave. After stealing his flowers. She clears her throat. “Um, well… not that this hasn’t been… surreal, but…”

“Yes, of course. You need to go to work, no doubt,” he says.

“Actually I have an hour before I need to be there,” she replies. “I don’t suppose you… want to grab a bite of breakfast with me?” she asks, resolutely facing _away_ from the accusatory stare of Katrina Crane’s headstone.

“Oh! I…”

“No, you’re right, it’s too weird. I don’t know why I—”

“I would love to have breakfast. With you. But you see, I dashed out the door in such haste that my wallet is,” he pats his empty pockets, “not with me.”

“Well, considering I invited you, breakfast is on me,” she replies.

He pauses for just a second, then nods and offers his arm.

She places her hand in the bend of his elbow. “Besides, buying you breakfast is the least I can do after stealing your flowers,” she says.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yankee Doodle lilacs are a real thing.


End file.
